


Rose's Eleven

by leupagus



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Alternate Universe - Criminals, Alternate Universe - Ocean's Eleven AU, Crimes & Criminals, Heist, M/M, Met Gala
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-03-02 08:20:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 45,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18807331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leupagus/pseuds/leupagus
Summary: “Mr. Rose, what do you think you would do if released?”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dhara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dhara/gifts).



“State your name for the record.”

“David. Rose? David Rose.”

“Thank you. The purpose of this parole hearing is to determine whether you are likely to break the law again. This was your first conviction, but you've been implicated in a dozen other schemes and frauds. What can you tell us about them?”

“I mean, I can’t, because all those are implications? And I’ve been — I mean lots of things get implied about you, as an art dealer, I can tell you. Yeah. And things have been implied about _me_ for — well. Gosh. Long time. So.”

“We're trying to find out if there was a reason for committing this crime or just a reason you got _caught_ this time.”

“Oh, well _this_ crime, the one I was charged with, was — um, well, my husband had left me. I was upset. Got into a real… self-destructive pattern, that’s the term. And when Sebastien—“

“Mr. Rose, Sebastien Raine was not convicted of the theft, or the insurance fraud. Nor was he even charged.”

“Oh, I’m not blaming him, god! No. Part of the self-work I’ve been doing in here is, you know, letting go of that…blaming. But what I was going to say was, when he came to me with an opportunity, I misused it, yeah. A real shame. I regret it, just… so much.”

“A condition of your parole, Mr. Rose, is that you avoid contact with people who might tempt you back into those self-destructive patterns. For you, this includes a significant portion of your family and social circle. Do you think you can manage that?”

“I mean, one of the best parts about being here was that I _didn’t_ see my family, you know? If you check my visitation logs you’ll notice they did not come to see me, either. So no, I think that will a requirement I’ll be happy to, um. Fulfill. Yes.”

“Mr. Rose, what do you think you would do if released?”

*

Downtown Auburn is bleak in any context, not least because there isn’t really a downtown. There’s a Wegmans, a Dunkin’ Donuts, and an assortment of vacant shop windows, some of them still sporting dusty “Save Copper John’s Johnson!” placards. David wanders up Genesee; he has a dead cellphone in his pocket, US$45 and a toonie in his wallet. He keeps heading vaguely northeast until he comes across what he’s looking for.

An hour and a half later he’s driving his new used Outback off the auto lot and onto Route 5. The dealer had been very sweet about throwing in the charger for free, although he probably doesn’t realize yet that David also has his phone, credit card and TimCard.

He dials Stevie’s number, hanging up after the third ring, calling back and hanging up after the first. Before he can hit redial, the phone rings back.

“So would you like a ‘Congratulations On Your Parole’ sheet cake or should I just get some of that sweet tea vodka?” Stevie asks.

David puts her on speaker, dropping the phone into a cupholder. “I believe I merit both, thank you very much? But maybe not the vodka, there was this potato moonshine still my cellmate tried to pull off in the toilet and I’m still having flashbacks.”

Stevie laughs, the sound filling the car, and David takes a deep breath full of it. “I’m at the Apothecary,” she says. “You coming?”

“I’m driving a _Subaru_ ,” he tells her, because no one else is ever going to hear about this shame but he has to share his burdens with someone. “I’ll be there whenever.”

“Key’s in the same place,” she says, and hangs up.

*

David called it the Apothecary. Stevie never asked why, mostly because she knew he wanted her to. From the street it looks like another warehouse that’s escaped gentrification by the skin of its teeth. Inside it’s all varnished floors and wood molding, light filtering in from the high windows, a huge central room that probably could’ve been a super snazzy dance club if David was a completely different human being. David used to joke that it was his “branded immersive experience:” it was where he lived, but it enfolded everyone who came through its doors. So long as they didn’t spill anything.

When David went upstate, he left a lot of things behind: his stupid clothes, his gallery in SoHo, a half-dozen or so paintings that were too hot to sell. And the Apothecary.

He left a lot of people behind, too, but Stevie’s always been better with things.

She kept the Apothecary and the paintings and the clothes, using them when she needed; David’s sweaters are ugly as fuck but really comfortable, the paintings come in handy when she needs to impress a fence with what they can’t have, and the Apothecary had been home base for so long that she’d almost forgotten who it was who used to joke about it being called “home base.” She’s always been better with things.

“I hate what you’ve done with the place,” David says, walking in with his head on a swivel. “Very mid-90s depression grunge.”

“We can’t all afford Vermeers over the mantlepiece,” Stevie says, getting up from the couch. He looks pretty much the same, five years on the inside not noticeably different from five years on the outside. His hugs are still suffocating. “I need to breathe,” she reminds him.

“Do you, though?” He lets her go and squints down at her, his lips pursed. “So. You busy?”

She sighs and heads for for the whiskey. “ _Really_ , David?”

“ _What_? I’m _asking._ ”

“You’ve been out for five minutes.”

“Excuse me, I’ve been out for eight hours. And it’s a foolproof plan.”

“Says the fool.” She pours two glasses out, holding them firmly when he reaches for one. “This is for non-fool ex-felons only,” she tells him, and takes a sip out of both glasses.

“Do you want to hear it or not? I came to you first.”

“How much was that because I signed you up for that cookie of the month club?”

David doesn’t answer, which is an answer. He sits on her couch and makes a face. “This is hideous, by the way. We’re getting rid of all of this. Where’s all _my_ stuff?”

“You mean the furniture ‘pieces’ you kept roped off everywhere? I sold them. I needed money. _And_ a place to sit down,” she adds at his outraged expression.

“And I needed my Louis XV _accotoirs_ ,” David protests, but he’s wriggling into the Pier One sofa with a resentful huff.

“I left the important stuff up in a room upstairs,” she assures him. “The Gucci and whatever.”

“How are we friends?”

“Because I have endless supplies of booze,” she answers, sitting next to him and handing him a glass, “And you have a plan.”

He takes it and clinks with her. “To fools like us,” he says, and downs it in one gulp.

*

The Metropolitan Museum of Art is 2,198,576 square feet, a massive quarter-mile conglomeration of a dozen or so buildings that have been absorbed into its mass over the century and a half the Met has been in existence. It boasts the most sophisticated security system in the world; it has never been successfully robbed, though many have tried.

And failed.

*

“So you want to steal from the most secure museum in the world on the day when security is at its maximum,” Stevie says, pouring herself another shot. She looks good; her hair’s longer and back to its natural brown-black, and she’s still not-really-rocking the flannel plaid look of 1995. Her redecoration of the Apothecary shouldn’t really be a surprise, considering.

“That’s a very cynical way of putting it,” he says, refocusing. “Look, does the Met Gala get a lot of extra security? Yes. Does it get a lot of extra surveillance? Also yes. And extra cameras and lights and staff—“

“This is not giving me more confidence in the foolproofness of your plan,” Stevie tells him.

“ _But_ ,” David says, trying to convey with the plosives that he means serious business, “These extra measures also put extra strain on the Met’s power grid. Meaning that they bring in generators specifically for the Gala.”

“And?”

“And,” he continues, “They don’t _use_ them for the Gala. They use them for the rest of the museum. For one night only, the entire Met depends on eleven generators.”

“Eleven.”

“Eleven. And guess who worked _very_ hard to get his electrician’s license while in the slammer?”

“David Axl Rose—“

“That’s not my name—“

“But it _is_ funny,” she reminds him. “So your plan is to knock out the generators, sneak into the museum using the Gala as a cover, and steal…what, exactly? The Vermeer isn’t even there.”

“I know exactly where it is, thank you,” David says, probably sharper than he should. She doesn’t say anything; she never has, not about that. He keeps going, “It doesn’t matter what we steal. Stealing is the easy part.”

“There’s an easy part, that’s good to know.” She leans back into the cushions. It really is a comfortable couch; that doesn’t make up for the fact that there’s a _couch_ in the Apothecary, when before there was a Victorian roundabout conversation chair, but it’s a mitigating factor. He lies down, experimental, his feet draped over the arm. “So this plan,” Stevie continues, as David settles his head in her lap, “It would have nothing to do with who’s _hosting_ the Gala, right?”

Stevie’s fingers sink into his hair. She’s the most beautiful woman he knows; she always will be, probably. “And who might that be?” he asks, innocent as he can manage while getting the first scalp massage in five years and also knowing that she’s totally wise to him. But it’s important to play along.

“Sebastien Raine,” she says, “Among others. Don’t get me wrong, I love screwing over an ex as much as the next girl, but…” She tugs a little bit, warning. “He’s not any less dangerous now, just because he’s more legit.”

“I’m kind of counting on that,” David admits.

“So are we doing this for payback with bonus cash, or are we doing this for cash and bonus payback? Not that it changes my answer.”

“And what’s the answer?” He’s holding his breath, because even after five years he still needs her to say yes; he still needs her looking for the holes he can’t see, the angles he’s not smart enough to cover. But more importantly than needing her, he _wants_ her.

She laughs and covers his face with a pillow, yelping when his flailing spills her whisky all over the couch.

“We’ll need a dozen guys at least,” she says, after they’ve found a towel, “And at least that many different cons. When does this thing start?”

“Three months. The first Monday in May, which I can’t believe you’ve been my friend for this long and don’t know that.”

“I knew who was hosting the fucking thing, that’s got to get me _some_ points.”

“That’s just because you’ve got Google Alerts set for Sebastien, like any good friend would have.” David frowns, dabbing at his sweater. “Is Google Alerts still around?”

“Yep. Sadly, Google Reader is dead.”

“Well, as long as Vine still exists.” He catches sight of her expression and sighs. “Just put me back in solitary, it’d be kinder.”

“So where will we get the money? Because this is not going to be cheap.”

“I still have friends,” David reminds her, then amends: “ _You_ still have friends.”

“Friends with this kind of cash and crazy enough to go for this?” She smiles. “You know what, I think I know just the guy.”

*

“I have to say, this has got to be one of the _very_ stupidest ideas I’ve come across in quite a while!” Ray says, handing out the tea. In business it’s important to be honest with one’s colleagues, especially colleagues who are also good friends who have come out all the way to Newark just to visit. “But David,” he adds, because perhaps this is too much honesty, “It is so _good_ to see you — you are looking very well! I don’t know why, I just assumed you’d die in prison. But here you are! Looking fit!”

David smiles. He really is still so charming. “Well, who knows what the future holds.”

“Truly, Stevie, David, I am so flattered that you would come to me for your nefarious dealings. It’s quite like old times! And I cannot deny that I could ‘bank roll’ this,” he has to put his tea down to make his quotation marks, “With very little difficulty.”

“Yes,” says David, leaning forward with a bright smile. “Stevie was telling me on the way over that your business…es? Are doing very well.”

Ray beams. Such a thoughtful young man, to pretend to be interested! “They _are_! Thank you so much for asking. It is _very_ appreciated. But David, as much as prison clearly agreed with you, I do not think this plan is very well thought out!”

“It’s never been tried,” David starts, “And—“

“Oh, David. So young! So full of ideas! So very completely out of your mind! I can assure you that it has indeed been tried! But no one has been successful in over forty years, and there are good reasons for that! They have cameras and guards and lasers and sensors and all manner of ‘high-powered’—“ he puts his tea down again— “Anti-theft measures. Not to mention, if you are planning to rob it that evening, there will be all manner of extra security! And in this day and age, getting arrested is perhaps preferable to getting shot by an overzealous police officer.” Both David and Stevie look crestfallen, and Ray is not heartless. “I admire your… what’s the term? Gumption? I admire it. But this will never work.”

“You’re absolutely right,” David sighs. “I mean really, Ray, thank God for you, because — I don’t know, I just saw my opportunity to get back at Sebastien and maybe—“

Ray chokes on his tea, which is a shame, because it really is excellent. “Sebastien?” he repeats. Perhaps he hadn’t heard correctly. “As in Sebastien Raine?”

Stevie blinks, her eyes wide. “Ray, do you _know_ him?”

He takes a deep breath. “Sebastien Raine was responsible for my one and only business — I don’t like to use the word failure, because all a failure is is a success that has turned a bit inside-out.”

“Mmm,” says David, taking another sip of tea. “He has a real gift for turning people inside-out.”

“How is he involved in this?” Ray demands.

“He’s one of the hosts of the Gala,” Stevie informs him. “And whatever happens that night, he’ll be _heavily_ involved.”

They are quite the pair — always had been. He can remember the first time Stevie and David tried to swindle him; such memories! “I see what it is you are doing,” he warns them.

Stevie shakes her head in shocked negation; David just smiles. “We’re not doing anything, Ray. Just talking. We’d like to talk _more_ , but if you really don’t think this is worth a try—“

“Sit, sit sit sit sit,” Ray urges, waving them back down. It’s as though they’re back in Ontario all over again, delightful. “All right. I still think this is entirely a crazypants idea.”

“Which is why we’ll need a crew as crazypants as we are,” Stevie says, reaching for a scone.

Ray grabs the tray and holds it out for her. “Who do you have in mind?”

*

Twyla answers on the first ring. “What is it?” she asks, sounding breathless.

Stevie hesitates. It doesn’t sound like the usual “what is it” that people answer the phones with. She sounds excited. “Hi?” she tries.

“Hi, sorry! Hi, Stevie, how are you?” Behind her voice is a slew of other voices. “I’m sorry, I was just — what’s the job? You know what, doesn’t matter, I’m in. Oh, dear, I’ve got to—“ and the phone gives that cheerful beep when someone’s hung up on you. Stevie kind of misses the finality of a receiver being clanged in your ear like when she was a kid.

“Do we have a greaseman?” David frowns around his pad thai. “Greasewoman,” he corrects.

“I…think so?”

“Great. Okay. Surveillance?”

“Ronnie Lee.”

“Right, but she hates me.”

“She hates everyone.”

“She doesn’t hate _you_.”

“Which is why she’ll do the job. Probably.”

“Probably?”

“I’m gonna need to ask her first.”

David makes a shooing gesture with his chopsticks.

*

“Hank’s practice got cancelled,” Karen shouts down the stairs, “Can you pick him up? I’ve got that thing in Wappinger Falls that’ll probably run over.”

Ronnie bites down on her cheeks because the kids don’t need to see her laughing at “Wappinger Falls.” “Honey,” she yells back, “You know I put in the intercom for a reason?”

“But I can’t yell I LOVE YOU REALLY LOUDLY over the intercom,” Karen bellows, and Gwennie starts giggling so hard a Cheerio somehow gets stuck up her nose, which Jasmine declares “super gross” and now the day’s really started.

She almost doesn’t hear her cell phone: the perimeter sensor’s gone off. Ronnie flicks through the cameras and sees a tiny white woman making herself comfortable on a lawn chair in the garage. “Hank, help your sister out,” she orders, and gets her ass out there.

Stevie waves at her as she comes down the garage steps. “This place is _nice_ ,” she says. “I remember thinking you guys were crazy moving up here but,” and she makes an “OK” sign.

Ronnie crosses her arms. “I’m gonna give you points for being cute,” she admits, “But whatever it is—“

“Hey, what’s with all the security anyhow?” Stevie says, propping her feet up on the riding lawnmower. “I mean, you kept saying on the phone how you were ‘out’ and not interested and all that stuff, but I counted nine cameras along the perimeter. Kinda paranoid there, Ronnie.”

There are ten cameras, but Ronnie’s not about to correct her. “It’s a busy street and I’ve got three kids.”

“Oh, well in that case.”

Stevie’s good at this; Maureen taught her and she’s gotten better since then. “So are you gonna tell me what this is so I can say no, or are you planning on moving in?”

“David’s got an idea for a thing,” she says, and waits.

Which is probably a good thing. “David? David Rose. Is it an idea for breaking out of prison?”

“He’s out. Did his five years like a good boy, ready to be a productive member of society.”

“Yeah, I remember what his productive member used to get up to.”

Actual annoyance flashes across Stevie’s face; the Roses have always been a weird spot for her, who knows why. “That was a long time ago,” she snaps. “He changed before he ever went up.”

She’s right, but Ronnie’s not about to admit it. “So what’s the idea. Just so we can hurry this along, I’ve gotta take the kids to school in ten minutes.”

Stevie smiles, lacing her fingers together behind her head. “You ever heard of the Met Gala?”

*

“Ronnie’s in,” Stevie says as she comes through the door. “We just have to—“

David looks up from where he’s sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table. Opposite him is Twyla, looking perky as ever, a deck of cards in her hands.

“Oh god.” She hopes that was quiet enough for Twyla not to hear. “Playing a two-person game of solitaire?” she asks, louder.

“Boys don’t like funny girls,” David says, waving her off. She ignores that — he’s enough evidence against it — and plops down on the couch behind him. There’s a few cards on the table already; Twyla’s got that little furrow between her eyebrows that means she’s either trying real hard or working up some impressive bullshit, it’s never been clear which. She pulls out a card and lays it in some sort of a pattern: a woman dressed in orange with a blindfold on, and a bunch of sticks around her. David leans in, interest all down his spine.

“Eight of swords — imprisonment.” She looks up at David. “Oh, right! Because you were—“

“Yes thank you,” he says, waving his hands.

“The next card is the present,” she says, laying it down. “Hmm.”

It’s a picture of two dudes with cups and a weird lion wing thing floating above them. “This is really helpful,” Stevie mutters in David’s ear.

“Forgive me for wanting to use everyone’s talents to the fullest,” he hisses back at her. “So Ronnie’s in?”

“Yep.” She refrains from explaining exactly what she had to promise in order to get her, because David’s not going to appreciate knowing that Ronnie can and probably will cut his comm whenever he gets too annoying. “What about Munitions. Jake’s available.”

“Jake’s always available,” David mutters. “What he isn’t is reliable. Or, how to put it, discreet?”

“Fair enough.”

“I can’t believe I’m about to suggest this,” David says, as Twyla mutters over another card, “But what about Jocelyn?”

“Jocelyn comes with Roland,” Stevie reminds him.

“I know, I know — although, how has that guy not blown up yet — but she’s good. And can probably wrangle him.”

“The past thirty years would indicate otherwise, but I’ll go ask.”

“And _this_ ,” Twyla says, laying down another card, “Represents your hopes and fears. The Lovers, which means—“

David thunks his head on the table. “Okay, we’re done! Thank you!”

*

“You’ve got the wrong guy, I swear,” Roland says to the cop leading him — not very gently — away from the bank toward the squadron of police cars. Is that what it is, a squadron? He just likes the word. Sounds like something out of _Law & Order_.

“Mr. Schitt, you have the right to remain—“

“I didn’t do anything,” Roland asserts. He hadn’t had a _chance_ to do anything, because they’d showed up before he got to the plunger, but that’s got to count for something.

“Yeah, I’m sure you were just there making a deposit,” grumbles the cop, and shoves him into the nearest car. He doesn’t even put a hand on his head, which seems reckless, and Roland’s not even settled in before there’s an all-too-familiar banging on the roof and they’re pulling out into traffic.

“Hey,” he says, trying to get a look at the driver. She’s young, sort of pretty, with something weirdly familiar about her. “Have you arrested me before?”

She glances back. “Roland, it’s Stevie. Budd? You used to change my diapers and taught me how to pick locks? We saw each other last Thanksgiving?”

Now that she says it, he recognizes her. “Stevie! How’re things! Are you — you’re not actually a cop, now, are you?” He wouldn’t dream of ever getting in the way of someone _else’s_ dreams, but it doesn’t feel like the right line of work for her.

“Yes, Roland, I’m actually a cop.” She slows down at a corner and the passenger door opens; Joss slips in. “Look what I picked up at the scene of the crime,” Stevie says to her.

“Rollie, we’ve really gotta work on your pacing,” Joss sighs.

“I’ve got us train tickets to New York,” Stevie says. “Figured you guys might want to clear out of town for a bit.”

“We just have to swing by Wrigleyville first,” says Roland.

“What’s in Wrigleyville?”

Honestly, it’s like she doesn’t even keep up with the group chat. “Rollie Junior? Our little miracle?”

“Your little — okay,” Stevie says, and glances at Jocelyn. “So you now come with _two_ Rolands, is what I’m hearing.” And they peel off into the cold Chicago night.

*

David surveys the board. “Okay. It’s looking good.” He sounds grudging; Stevie rolls her eyes.

“We still need a Barrington,” she says, tapping the relevant Post-It. “Otherwise that handoff isn’t going to work.”

He nods. “What about Carl?”

“Dead.”

“Holy shit. When? How?”

“Mmm, best not to ask,” she says, because that whole episode had been gross.

“Eesh. Okay.” David makes a face. “What about… ugh. Wendy?”

Stevie understands the face. “Retired in Cabo, thank God. But I heard she was training somebody. A kid she knows, or gave birth to, something?”

“I see,” David says, and looks like he does. “Call her and ask—“

“I just got back from O’Hare,” she says, and goes to collapse on the couch. Her feet hurt. “ _And_ I had to go to _Chappaqua_ , which is worse. _You_ call.”

David grumbles and goes hunting for his sunglasses.

*

The subway’s one of the worst places for a lift; everyone is in that weird space where you’re trying to ignore everyone and pay attention to everything, which means a higher chance of getting caught. But rush hour means crowding in and bumping up against everyone else, and there aren’t a whole lot of men who mind when a cute girl presses against them.

Mandy scores a wallet from some old Tostitos-smelling guy and gets off at Christopher Street; Murray’s is nearby and Michael’s probably there to give her free Humboldt Fog.

She’s heading up Bleeker when someone clears his throat, loudly, behind her. “That was a _nice_ lift.”

Mandy spins around; a tall guy with ugly sunglasses and some really loud pants is looking at her, his head cocked. “Mr. Rose?” she realizes after a second.

He smiles. “I’m reluctant to congratulate Wendy on much of anything, honestly? But that was _very_ good.”

“I thought you were in—“ there are people around, so she probably shouldn’t, but he’s talking about her technique in public so maybe this is just one of those “and they were roommates” conversations that happen in New York. “Upstate?”

“And I thought _you’d_ be in school,” Mr. Rose says, lowering his sunglasses enough to squint at her. “Education is the passport to the future.”

“I’m getting my GED,” she says, defensive.

The last time she’d seen him had been at one of Wendy’s safe houses after some job she and Dad were doing had gone south; Mr. Rose had been her babysitter-slash-bodyguard for the better part of a week, holed up in a 180-square-foot room with a couple of twin mattresses on the floor and a bathtub in the kitchen. She’d started her first period the second night; Mr. Rose had given her his sweater and snuck out to get her pads and tampons and chocolate, coming back an hour later than he’d promised with what he’d described as a “light gunshot graze.” When he’d got put away a few months after, she’d gotten into some trouble trying to mail him blueprints of the Auburn penitentiary.

“Of course you are.” He readjusts his sunglasses and takes her arm. “We going to Murray’s? I’m dying for some Mimolette.”

*

“And that’s eight. We should be fine with that.”

Stevie doesn’t say anything, because she doesn’t need to say anything.

“You think we need one more?”

She continues not to say anything.

“You think we need _two_ more?”

She pops her gum, waits him out.

“You think we need three — no. _No._ ”

She takes a deep breath and lets it out.

“They’ll screw everything up. That’s what they do. That’s their gift, collectively and individually.”

She props her chin on her hand and stares at him.

“Ugh. This is — fine. Fine. But when I get arrested again I’m taking you down with me. As payback for this.”

*

The doorbell rings halfway through dinner, right as Mr. Rose is starting to talk about allocations again. He keeps right on going, and a few seconds later it rings again.

“Adelina!” Mrs. Rose bellows, and Ted tries not to jump but she’s got pipes on her.

“You gave her the night off, remember?” Alexis says, stabbing at her salad with probably more violence than it merits. Wednesday night dinners at the Roses’ house out in Eastport has apparently been going on for years, way longer than Ted’s been involved in them, but half the time Alexis doesn’t even seem to want to be there. He suggested once that they just…not go, anymore, if it made her so miserable; she laughed for a solid minute and kissed him. “You are _so funny_ , like a little stand-up comedian marshmallow,” she cooed, and that was the last time they talked about it.

The doorbell rings again. “Well then what are _we_ supposed to do?” Mrs. Rose demands. “I’m hardly dressed to entertain _strangers_ at this hour.”

The hour is eight-thirty. Ted hopes he doesn’t look too eager as he gets up. “I’ll get it,” he offers.

“You’ve been together almost three years,” he hears Mrs. Rose saying as he slips out of the dining room and into the foyer, “Isn’t it time he stops being quite so sycophantic, dear?”

“ _Mom_ ,” Alexis hisses. He loves a lot of things about her, even stuff most people would probably not find all that lovable, but one of the things he loves best is that she’s pretty much always ready to fight anyone, any time, who says anything mean about him. Which is kind of a good thing, honestly, because as a vet in New York you get a _lot_ of angry pet owners who make more in a day than he makes in a year, and having an assistant-slash-wife who’s ready to throw down at a moment’s notice is nice, even though he’s had to pump the brakes on most of her preferred methods of throwing down.

He opens the door to a tall guy with black hair and thick eyebrows, almost as startling as Mr. Rose’s; he’s holding a bottle of wine. “Um,” he says.

“Can I help you?” Ted tries. The guy looks weirdly familiar.

“I’m beginning to doubt it,” the guy says. “I’m — did the Roses move out, or die horribly, or something?”

“Oh! No — I’m Ted, Alexis’s husband.” He reaches out to shake the guy’s hand.

“Husband? Wow, okay. Well, I’m David. Alexis’s brother.” His grip is just a little tight.

Ted swallows. “Oh,” he says. His voice goes pretty high. “Nice to, uh. Meet you.”

“Isn’t it, though?” He pushes past him and into the house, leaving Ted to shut the door behind him and maybe also pre-dial 911 just in case. The stories they’ve told about David didn’t make him sound like he’d try to shoot somebody, but Ted’s experience with felons is kind of limited.

By the time he scoots back to the dining room, there’s already a full-on screaming fight going on, which Ted can’t really follow much of because literally all four of them are shouting at the exact same time. “Okay, guys?” he tries, and gets nowhere; Alexis has a butterknife and is waving it in her brother’s face, while Mrs. Rose is gulping down the rest of her glass while also somehow yelling at her husband, who’s protesting loudly right back. “Guys, _guys!”_ he tries again, and when that doesn’t work he gets out his little parakeet whistle and blows _hard_.

All four of them turn on him in identical outrage, and Ted’s got a minute wondering how he didn’t realize who David was immediately. “Okay, maybe if we all just sit down—“

“ _Who_ are you, again?” David demands, which is harsh but fair.

“He’s my _husband_ ,” Alexis hisses. “As in the guy who married me _after_ I told him the truth about us? I mean, what kind of person marries someone else and _hides_ that kind of thing, _David_?”

“Okay, you’re making us sound like vampires or elves or something,” David snaps. “We’re just _criminals_ , we’re not… werewolves.”

“We’re not _criminals_ , David,” Mrs. Rose says. “Your father and I — and Alexis — have never been _caught_.”

“Oh my god, that’s not how it — this is why I didn’t want to come here! The rest of my life it’s going to be about the _one time_ I made a mistake—“

“Getting thrown in prison for five years isn’t really a mistake, David,” says Mr. Rose, doing his best I’m-not-mad-I’m-just-disappointed impression. “That’s more of a choice.”

“Which _you_ said was a mistake!”

“And you didn’t listen to me, and look what happened!”

“Are we _seriously_ still on this! It’s been five years, I think my _prison sentence_ has taught me the error of my ways!”

“So what is it you want our help with, then?” Alexis says. She’s still scrunched in on herself, her jaw set. Ted wants to go over to her but he’s out of place as it is; he puts his whistle away and tries not to get in the way.

David looks around at them, even at Ted. “ _Ugh_ ,” he says, finally, and sits in Alexis’s seat, setting the bottle on the table with a _thunk_. “Somebody get me a bottle opener.”

They don’t really stop shouting, per se, for the rest of the meal. Ted gives Alexis his seat and focuses on clearing the place settings as the food disappears, because he’s not about to trust any of these guys with cutlery or flatware that they can break over each other’s heads. Nobody seems to notice, which is kind of insulting but also kind of — not _satisfying_ , exactly, but he doesn’t really mind.

He’s elbow-deep in suds at the sink when David comes in, his arms crossed the same way Alexis does when she’s sad and trying to pretend she’s annoyed instead. “They kicked me out to discuss amongst themselves,” he explains, a fake smile that’s even less convincing than Alexis’s. How either of them are con artists is kind of beyond him, with faces that easy to read. Maybe when you’re on the job it’s different.

“You want to dry?” he offers.

Which is how Ted ends up doing the dishes with an ex-felon (“no, I didn’t _break out_ , this isn’t _Out of Sight_ ,”) and hearing all about this heist idea, which sounds pretty neat.

“‘Neat’ isn’t quite the descriptor we’re going for,” David mutters, wiping off a platter with a scowl on his face.

“I just meant, you know, vengeance and profit seems like a pretty good twofer,” Ted explains. The baked ziti is really stuck on there, and he spends a few minutes scrubbing. When he finally gets it cleaned and rinsed, he hands it off; David is watching him. “Do I have sauce on my face?”

David shakes his head and takes the dish. “Alexis says you’re a vet?” he says instead.

“Yup. Got a degree and everything.”

“And you married a con artist who hates animals.”

Ted shrugs. His parents — hell, most of his friends — had said the same thing. “We’re not exactly the ‘purr-fect’ match,” he admits, “But she’s… she makes things brighter, you know? I’ve never met anyone who sees the world the way she does.”

“Clearly you’ve been hanging out with the right crowd,” David mutters. He glances over at the door to the dining room; the voices are still going, loud but indistinct. “They’re never going to — this was such a waste of time.”

He looks miserable, and like he’s trying not to look miserable. “For what it’s worth, _I_ think it’s a great idea.”

“A ‘neat’ idea, is the term I believe you used,” David says, smiling just a little bit. “But Alexis was pretty firm on you not getting involved, so your moral support is nice but ultimately not that useful. No offense,” he adds, not sounding like he’s all that concerned about offending him.

Ted’s a little worried about how fond he is of this guy already. The Rose family’s got that effect on people, he’s been told: you get involved with one of them and suddenly the whole bickering cat-clawed mess is in your lap, whether you want them there or not. “They’re gonna help you,” he tells him. “I mean, you’ve known them longer than me, obviously. But I’ve been here for the past three years. And there’s not a day goes by that Alexis doesn’t mention you.”

“How often is it something like ‘my idiot brother who got himself incarcerated’?” David asks, with a little too much insight.

“The point is,” Ted says hurriedly, “That, like, ninety percent of the reason they were so mad at you in the first place is because you refused to let them help last time. Maybe this can be like, I don’t know. A chance for healing.”

David squints at him. “Where the fuck did Alexis _find_ you?” he demands.

“Smoothies brought us together,” Ted tells him, and hands him another plate.

*

First meet-up with the whole crew is always exciting. Twyla’s done — gosh, tons of these, probably more than she can reliably count, especially after that time with the induced amnesia and stuff — and every time it’s a super fun time. She even brought cookies.

Most people she already knows, from other jobs or just from the Apothecary, back when it was David’s home base. Ronnie and Jocelyn have gotten her out of more scrapes than she can remember, and she’s done a half dozen jobs with one Rose or another over the years. And Ray’s practically an institution, although she’s only really met him once, way back in 2011 when he and David were doing that thing in Belize. That had been a hoot and a half.

The only person she doesn’t recognize is a little blonde girl sitting in the corner, drinking some Starbucks thing that’s about as big as her head. Stevie said something about getting a kid for the Barrington, but this is a _kid_ kid. “Hi,” Twyla says, sitting next to her. “I’m Twyla.”

“Um, Mandy. Nice to meet you.” She clutches harder at her drink.

“Is this your first job?”

“No,” says Mandy, then immediately says, “I mean, yes. I’ve done stuff before. Like, a lot. But um, this is my first—“

“It’s her first group work,” David says, coming up with a plateful of cookies and munching on one already. “She’ll be great.”

Mandy looks like she’s going to throw up. “Yeah, for sure!” Twyla chirps, and gets a stink-eye from David.

Stevie clears her throat. “Okay, everyone got drinks? So let me say first off, nobody’s on the hook yet. What we’re doing here is going to make a lot of money, but there’s a nonzero chance that somebody’s going to get arrested, shot,” Stevie sighs and gestures at Twyla, “Or possibly drowned.”

Twyla’s about to defend herself — it’s not her fault that’s what the reading had indicated! — but Stevie keeps going. “So if that’s not your thing, head out now and we’ll see you at the next Fourth of July party, no questions asked, okay?”

It’s silent for a few seconds; everybody looks comfortable, even the Roses. Twyla looks over at Mandy, who definitely doesn’t. She’s not sure what to tell the kid to help her decide, but just then David hands Mandy a cookie, and the moment passes.

“Okay,” Stevie says, clapping her hands. “Let’s go.”

*

_Surveillance_

Brady looks over the resume, trying to focus. He’s been dealing with a low-grade headache all day and having to interview people isn’t all that restful, no matter what his boss says. He squints at the paper and a hand comes into view, with a bottle of ibuprofen.

“I’ve seen that look before,” his interviewee—Ronnie Lee, last worked for some surveillance company in Bismarck, looking to transfer for family-related reasons—says, with a smile. “Staring at cameras all day, sometimes feels like there’s a live wire right in the back of your skull.”

He takes the bottle, gratefully. “You’re hired.”

*

_Infiltration_

Meridith looks over the seating chart one more time. It’s not perfect — Ms. Wintour is have a shitfit over the mess at the Burberry table — but so far nothing catastrophic has happened. Which is honestly a first in the four years she’s been working the Gala.

A certain amount of credit might even go to that new girl, Tyra or Teanna or whatever her name is, with her perky smile and cheekbones and enthusiasm for yoga. She’s taken over some of the more annoying jobs and smoothed things out, including that Calvin Klein mess that could have resulted in a serious slapfight at some point in the evening.

It almost makes up for this.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she groans.

Tina — that’s her name, Meridith’s 80% sure — shrugs apologetically. “I’m as amazed as you are,” she says. “But we’ve got the empty table now with Calvin pulling out, and he’s buying the whole table.”

“Is he sitting alone?” Meridith demands, but the minute she says it she knows that yeah, that’s probably what’s going to happen. Herb Ertlinger hasn’t been seen for something like twenty years, even with his fashion house at the top of its game; he doesn’t attend shows, parties, doesn’t even go to his own offices. If he really is turning up for the first time in a generation for this particular Gala, Meridith’s entire life is about to be so, so fucked.

Tina pats her arm. “A couple of us are going to a yoga class down on eighth later on,” she offers. “You wanna come?”

*

_Demolition_

Jocelyn rubs her temples. It’s a good way to keep herself cool and calm and collected on days like this, when Rollie Jr. hasn’t had his nap and Roland got her the wrong couplings for the project and is now trying to _argue with her_ about cap triggers, which ordinarily she thinks is adorable but they’re all on a time crunch here. “Honey, sweetie, just go back to Home Depot and get what I asked for, okay?”

“I don’t see what the difference is!” he protests, waving the couplings around. “It’s in, it’s out, boom, right? Why—“

“Because she asked you nicely,” says Stevie from behind her. Rollie Jr. makes a cooing sound and reaches for Stevie, who waves sort of awkwardly. Jocelyn is getting the impression that Stevie isn’t all that thrilled to be around a baby, but finding a good babysitter is such a challenge these days. “And if you don’t go when she asks you nicely, I’ll start asking you. Less nicely.”

“Fine, I’m going, jeez,” he mutters, stuffing the couplings back into the bag and shuffling out the warehouse doors. Stevie shakes her head.

“Just like old times,” Jocelyn says. “Remember, you and Rollie and Johnny with that — what did you call it?”

Stevie shudders. “The Rosebud Motel. And don’t remind me.” She frowns at the mass of pipes and wire sitting on Jocelyn’s workbench. “Are these seriously going to be ready in time?”

“Oh, absolutely,” says Jocelyn, bouncing Rollie Jr. just a little bit as he starts fussing. “I factored in Roland getting at least seven things wrong on the list, so far he’s only gotten three.”

*

_Construction_

The first painting David paid homage to — Johnny doesn’t like the word “forged,” it sounds so tawdry, when really what’s happening is it’s own kind of artwork — was “La Mer à Grandcamp” by Seurat, when he was about 12. He sat in his room for a week straight, squinting at the poster Adelina had bought, coming out occasionally to demand more paint or a different brush.

It came out a mess, too many corrections and overpainting in David’s quest to make every brush stroke exactly like the original.

So then David spent another two weeks up in his room. The second version was flawless.

Moira had it hung up in the living room after Johnny knocked together a frame, smiling serenely when people came over to ask when on _Earth_ they had gone to Brussels and picked up such a perfect little piece. And then one day Dee Dee dropped by and said, “You know, no one would know that’s not the real thing.”

For almost five years, Johnny had a nice little side business with his son, paying homage to Degas, Seurat, Bruegel — when he was younger it was mostly whatever David felt like painting, although as he got more invested in the business he started working on pieces that would get them money rather than pieces that would get them noticed.

After David went off on his own, Johnny felt a certain — Johnny doesn’t like the word “regret” — nostalgia, for how it used to be. He remembers working with David as a precious chance to pass on what he knows to his son, to see him grow up and grow into his own. Not many fathers get that sort of chance.

He’s realizing now that he dodged a bullet, getting out of business with David when he did.

“Okay, this is _completely_ unacceptable,” David says, slamming down the frame. It cracks right along the bottom.

“David, it’s _supposed_ to—“

“It’s supposed to what? Look like a frame out of Walmart?” David waves his hands around like he’s kneading invisible dough in mid-air. “You cannot possibly have become _this bad at your job_.”

“I’m perfectly _fine_ at my job, son, and maybe if you’d concentrate on _yours_ we’d be a little further along—“

“Oh my God, why are you still _like_ this—“

“I’m not like anything—“

“Ugh!”

*

_Transport_

The car pulls up into the garage, the prettiest little Corvette Kyle’s ever seen, with a prettier girl at the wheel, looking wide-eyed and fearful.

“Ohmigod, _hi_ ,” she says, breathless and reaching out to grab his hand as he comes up.

“Hi,” he says. Mama said he’d know when he met the right girl. He’s already ready to marry her. “Um. Welcome to Jared’s Garage and Storage. Can I, uh, help you?”

She smiles. Her hands are as soft as a smooth leather seat. “I really hope so,” she says. “I’m Alexis. What’s your name?”

*

The Raine Gallery is on Bowery south of Houston, around the corner from the New Museum. Back when it had been the Rose Gallery and Stevie was busy making fun of David for buying an entire building just because his boyfriend thought he was an actual art dealer, David had decorated it in grey and beige colors, unobtrusive. “The art should be the focus,” he’d lectured her when she’d made fun of that, too.

Raine clearly thinks differently. Stevie hands her and Mandy’s invitations off to the guy at the door and immediately flinches. “My _eyes_ ,” she mutters. The entire gallery is a mix of neon green and purple, even the floors and ceilings, with Raine’s name strategically placed everywhere. It’s like looking at the inside of a migraine.

Mandy doesn’t seem bothered. “Okay, so tonight he’s introducing all the people who are going to be at his table for the gala thing to each other, plus his patrons and artists and whoever else he wants to impress. Stockbroker assholes and socialites who want to look smart.”

“Right.” Stevie grabs two glasses of champagne from off a tray. She tries handing one to Mandy, who looks around. “Nobody’s going to card you,” Stevie tells her. “You don’t have to drink, just keep it in your hand. There’s always a few underage girlfriends and boyfriends at these things.”

“Okay.” Mandy takes a tentative sip and makes a face, then immediately takes another. Stevie bites her lip. No wonder David loves this kid.

They wander through the gallery; it’s full of green and purple and chattering people, all looking like they want to look like they belong. They wander past the grand staircase, with its great big marble steps that seem to spill out onto the floor. David had his offices on the second floor just so he could go up and down a few dozen times a day. Not even Raine managed to ruin it, thank god.

They spot the man himself in the next room, his hand low on some wide-eyed kid’s back and smiling beatifically. Stevie hangs back in a corner, watching the ebb and flow of people around him. “So tell me about Sebastien Raine,” she says.

“The guy’s a douchebag,” says Mandy. “He’s sleeping with a dozen different people, mostly dumbass artists who think he likes their work. He’s also fucking at least one other host, plus there’s rumors that his plus-one for the Gala is actually his boyfriend who’s just like, incredibly oblivious or they’ve got some kind of open relationship BS going on.”

“Guess some things never change,” Stevie says, and waves at her to keep going.

“He’s trying to angle his co-hosting gig into a higher profile for himself and the gallery; he wants to expand into more of a Christie’s or Sotheby’s type of thing.” She frowns when Stevie raises her eyebrows. “What? I know what Christie’s and Sotheby’s are. I’ve got Google.”

“Fair enough,” Stevie admits. “So who’s this plus-one slash boyfriend slash idiot?”

Mandy looks around. “Don’t see him yet. He works here, does the books or something. They have dinner together every Wednesday at whatever the hottest restaurant is. Oh,” she adds, nodding at the staircase. “There he is.”

Stevie looks over; a young man is coming down the stairs, close-cropped reddish brown hair and dark eyes, wearing a boring suit with a tie David would never have approved of. He’s got his hands clenched into fists but he’s smiling at somebody — Raine, it turns out, who’s wandered over to greet him with a kiss on the cheek.

She turns her back as they walk past; Mandy, secure in her anonymity, sips some more champagne as she continues, “I don’t know what his deal is yet — I haven’t even gotten his name.”

Somewhere out there Stevie hopes David can feel her hands around his neck. “Patrick,” she sighs, watching them disappear into the crowd. “His name is Patrick.”


	2. Chapter 2

David’s sorting through his closets — a depressing percentage of this stuff is either dated or has fallen victim to moths or both — when he hears Stevie yelling from the hall, getting closer. It’s not totally intelligible yet, but he’s getting the gist.

This is going to be awkward.

“— _tell_ me that Patrick was fucking Raine, and _that’s_ why you’re doing this? I mean I’d like to drop Raine in a vat of molten lava as much as the next girl, but Patrick—“ she rounds the corner and barely rolls her eyes, seeing him hip-deep in knits. “We need to talk about this.”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather just yell some more at the top of your lungs?” he asks, because Mom raised him to be polite. “Scream therapy is all the rage in prison.” She folds her arms across her chest. “Did you _see_ him fucking Sebastien?” he asks. “I didn’t think it was going to be that kind of party. Shouldn’t have taken Mandy if it was.”

Stevie doesn’t seem to be in the mood to appreciate his sense of humor. “I saw _him_. _With_ Raine, strolling around _your_ gallery. I thought he was working for some boring law firm or something.”

“You said you had Google Alerts.”

“Patrick Brewer doesn’t really merit Google Alerts, David,” she says. “And I don’t even want to _know_ how _you’ve_ been keeping track of him.”

“I just want to make sure he’s not dead in a ditch somewhere,” David says, defensive. It’s the truth but it’s not entirely true.

“Sure,” says Stevie, skeptical. “Anyway, they looked pretty fucking comfortable together from what I saw, so if they’re not fucking, they probably will be.”

She’s just saying that to hurt him, obviously. It’s working, but that’s beside the point. “They’ve known each other for almost ten years, obviously they’d be _comfortable_ —“

“David, seriously,” she says, and comes into sit on the bed — on Patrick’s side; he always made fun of David for insisting that Patrick sleep closest to the door. _You want_ me _to get murdered first?_ he’d tease, and just laugh at all David’s assurances that he would _obviously_ embark on a lifelong quest to avenge his death. “What are we really trying to get, here? Some artwork? Patrick? The Vermeer? Revenge? I’m losing track. That’s not good.”

“I know,” he admits.

“It’s okay to want him back,” Stevie says, in that flat way she has where she might as well be talking about exit strategy or what to order for lunch. “But Patrick doesn’t split eleven ways. You know that, right?”

“He’s not involved in this,” David tells her.

“If we pull this off the way we’re hoping to, he’s _gonna_ be involved,” Stevie says, insistent and mean and uncomfortably correct. He wanted her with him on this job so she could see what he wasn’t smart enough to.

But. “I’ll make sure he stays out of it.”

She gapes at him. “How, exactly, do you plan on doing that? He’s Sebastien’s _date_ , and he’s your _ex-husband_. Literally no matter what happens he’s going to have to answer some really uncomfortable questions, at the _very_ least.”

“In which case, the sooner he breaks his apparently continuing habit of falling for criminals, the better.” He clears his throat. “So how, um. How did he look?”

“He looked good,” she says, grudging. “You’re gonna _hate_ his clothes.”

*

It’s a new restaurant, on somebody’s Hot List or Must Eat list, however they’re determined; Patrick has no clue and no interest in learning. David never took him to places like this, preferring his own metrics that he would loftily explain to Patrick — only to break down and confess, with a grin, that the real reason he loved it was because there was a cotton candy machine out front, or because he’d lost his virginity in the apartment directly overhead and the smell of wontons still got him hard, or something else that would make Patrick laugh and drag him in for a kiss.

Sebastien enjoys the Hot To Eat places, though, enjoys sitting back and surveying the crowds, enjoys the people who come up to their table and make small talk. Patrick likes the food and fact that Sebastien is always running an hour behind; he can sit alone at the best table in the house and have a beer and pretend he’s waiting for someone else.

A hand touches his shoulder. “You’re only twenty minutes late,” Patrick says, turning to smile up at—

His hair is longer, swept up in a vaguely ridiculous pompadour that Patrick would’ve mocked him for mercilessly, once. He has on a simple black suit, nothing elaborate, nothing Patrick recognizes. He’s thinner, older, a handful of lines around his eyes that Patrick never saw forming.

He’s still so beautiful it makes him ache.

“Hi,” says David.

“What are you doing here?” He’d rehearsed the first thing he’d say to David every day for the past five years. This morning he’d repeated it in the mirror, as routine as brushing his teeth. _What are you doing here_ isn’t it.

“Turns out, prison has its own kind of get-out-of-jail-free card,” David says, pulling out the chair next to him. “You just have to spend a few years earning it. So, not free, exactly.”

“I know what parole is. Don’t sit.”

David sits. “So! Now that I’ve paid my debt to society—“

“Funny, I never got a check.” He’d rehearsed _that_ line; something cutting, that could hurt.

Hurting David doesn’t come naturally. In all their years together, they’d fit their sharp edges against each other — not perfectly, not without some adjusting — but they’d never drawn blood. David had been careful with him in a way he wasn’t with anyone else, treating Patrick like something precious, something that might be taken away any moment.

And then, he was.

After that morning, when David went for coffee and never came back, pain rolled over almost everything. Patrick had sat for days in the Apothecary, staring at the blank space on the wall where the Vermeer had been, wondering why he wasn’t bleeding to death.

David’s still smiling at him. Patrick used to touch that smile, press his fingers into the odd downward curve of David’s mouth, as if even at his happiest there was something held back. Which was true, of course. “How are you?” David asks, leaning his chin on his hand. “You look good.”

“I haven’t had to send anyone to prison for over five years. So I guess I’m doing fine.”

David steals Patrick’s beer, takes a sip and makes the same face he’d made a thousand times before. “I hear you’re doing the books for the gallery,” he says, holding onto the bottle, swirling it in his hand. Patrick had been so good about not looking; four gold rings, two on his ring finger, two on his index. “Have you learned the difference between Monet and Manet yet?”

“Monet married his mistress,” Patrick says. “And Manet died of syphilis.”

“They also painted, occasionally,” David murmurs.

Patrick shuts his eyes. “David, just — get out, before—“

“Before what? _Sebastien_?”

He had forgotten the existence of Sebastien Raine. David’s smile is gone, his eyebrows pulled down. It used to be so easy to read those changes in mood; to know when David was worried or angry or just tired, when he needed reassurance or a snack or a kiss. Patrick stares at him and doesn’t know what he needs.

“David—“

“Okay, _fine_! I’ll make this quick,” he says, irritated now, gorgeous in the clench of his jaw. “I came here to ask you if you’d… try again. With me. I still—“

He isn’t going to say it, Patrick knows. He said it once, on a random Tuesday afternoon in the middle of the gallery. Patrick never needed to hear it more than that, because he’d been so sure that it was still true. Even after everything, he’s been sure.

But he’s sure of other things; things he practiced in the mirror that morning. “You’re a thief,” he recites. “And a liar.”

David waves his hands, the drink spilling on the floor and his pants. “Okay, I only _lied_ about being a _thief_ ,” he yelps, and it takes all the pieces of Patrick’s heart not to wipe up the spill with his napkin and pull him up, thread their fingers together as he leads David out.“I don’t _do_ that anymore.”

“Steal?” he asks.

David blinks at him; whatever he says next will be a lie. “Lie.”

Patrick leans back in his chair, crossing his arms; his hands are shaking. “I’d rather be with someone who doesn’t have to make that kind of distinction.”

“No, he’s _very_ clear on both,” David mutters, and Patrick feels a lurch under him because David thinks—

He shakes his head. “You know what your problem is, David?”

David looks up from where he’s scrubbing at his pants with the corner of the tablecloth. “I’m counting at least like, five, right off the top of my head,” he admits, grimacing and wide open.

“You think everyone sees the world the same way you do.” It would be so easy to make up something cruel, something that would push David out of his seat and out of this restaurant and locked back up in Patrick’s heart for years and still beautiful, still so beautiful. “If I’m with Sebastien, it’s none of your business anymore.”

David hesitates, his hand still clenched in the tablecloth. “Does he make you laugh?” he asks, small and quiet and afraid. It should feel good, to make David Rose afraid. David Rose, who never feared anything.

It feels awful. “He doesn’t make me cry.”

*

“Um, Mr. Raine?” Helene leans in through the door. “There’s a Moira Rose here to see you? She doesn’t have an appointment?”

It’s almost seven o’clock and he’s been here since four, but this is important. “It’s fine.”

Moira sails in, a black and silver cape shimmering over a beautiful vintage Yves Saint Laurent. “Sebastien, thank you so much for allowing me to trespass,” she says, beaming as he raises her hand to his lips.

“Not at all,” he says. “Given your family’s history with this gallery, you could never be an interloper here.”

“Such kindness, but I fear—“ she pauses and looks pointedly at the open door. He leans over and shuts it, noting the relief on her face. “Thank you, Sebastien, as ever the soul of discretion.”

“You honor me,” he says, clasping his hand to his heart. “Please, sit down.”

She sinks into the Jacobsen. “You’ve truly revolutionized this place, Sebastien,” she says. “As I was coming in I couldn’t help but remember all the dreary beige and ecru that David ensconced himself in when he owned this gallery. This is _quite_ the departure.”

“Thank you, Moira — I like to think I’m able to mold this space in service of the art.” He smiles as he sits back in his chair. “But I don’t think you came here to talk about the gallery.”

“No.” She leans back in the chair, crossing her legs demurely. She’s still got great legs; he always regretted that patriarchal hold her husband had over her that barred her from physical adventure. “I confess I’m not quite sure where to begin. Perhaps the reason I’ve come to you, to start — you’ve always been there for us, Sebastien, even after the unpleasantness with David. You even helped with that… little matter.” She fluttered her hands delicately.

It had been a delicate little matter. He and David had been on the verge of selling the biggest piece they’d ever gotten their hands on, Vermeer’s _Het Straatje_ , to an enthusiastic museum in Amsterdam; they would have walked away with a cool twenty million each. And then that authenticator came strolling along.

Sebastien spent a dozen uncomfortable hours in a police station before attention shifted to David, who acted…predictably. “I only regret that I couldn’t save David from himself,” he says, mournful.

“I know you do,” says Moira, leaning forward to touch his arm. “Which is why I’ve come to you.” She furrows her brow. “I’m not sure you’re aware, but David… has served his incarceral period. He’s back here, in New York.”

Sebastien lets his breath flow out his mouth and back in through his nose. It’s important, always, to stay calm and collected. Nothing’s happened yet; nothing will happen, with a little clear-headed thinking. “Really?”

“Yes. And I’m afraid he’s planning something rash. Nothing violent, you understand, but somehow he still blames you for that entire unfortunate situation. As though Patrick weren’t the one who turned him in!”

Sebastien stifles a smile. Wide-eyed Patrick, his spine stiff as a board as Sebastien had mentioned the Vermeer over their mantlepiece at that dingy warehouse they called home. _I thought it was just another one of David’s copies_ , he’d said to him, months later after it was all over, looking up at Sebastien with pain etched in every clean line of him. It had been almost as beautiful as the sight of David being led out of the courtroom, swept tidily out of his life.

“In his own way,” he says, “I think David really did love Patrick. Such feelings can blind you to the truth.” He considers his options; it was inevitable that David would get out one day, and just as predictable that he’d be childish about the whole thing, just when it was most inconvenient. “I would never ask you to tell me what it is David’s planning. I know you could never betray your only son.”

That might be pushing it a bit; the Roses have hated each other for years. Moira might have found her maternal instinct at last, but he doubts it. “Thank you,” she says, sounding a bit puzzled.

“But I would ask you to help me in another way. I assume he’s planning something to do with the Gala?”

“Alas,” she says mournfully. “You know my son all too well.”

“Which gives us more than enough time to acquire a certain… insurance against anything rash he might do.”

Moira smiles, a real one, the one that doesn’t do her any favors. “‘We,’ Sebastien?”

He cocks his head. It really was so easy to charm her. “Surely you wouldn’t turn down a favor for an old friend.”

“I suppose it would have to depend on the favor,” she says, leaning forward.

He does the same. This is going to be _fun_. “When’s the last time you were in Amsterdam?”

“Oh,” she says, “A long time ago. But I hear it’s _lovely_ this time of year.”

*

“So you’re seriously suggesting we go out _through_ Central Park,” David says, sing-song and snide, and Alexis wishes she could put him back in prison. “That doesn’t strike you as, I don’t know, _incredibly_ stupid?”

They’re sitting on the two chairs perched outside William Greenberg, ignoring the pointed huffs from the old people streaming in and out of the bakery and munching on the cake pops that Ted kept mentioning he’d ordered for his staff. Ted, bless his beautiful little heart, went off to get them coffee, which is nice because coffee but terrible because that means she has to be alone with David, which usually ends up in hair-pulling or crying or something.

“We’re not going out _through_ Central Park, we’re going out _of_ Central Park, because there’s no way in hell we’re going to waltz out the front doors of the fucking Met with armfuls of artwork, I don’t care how we’re dressed,” she snaps. “So if you’d just shut up and let me deal with _my area of expertise_ —“

“I didn’t know getting speeding tickets in every one of the contiguous United States was ‘expertise’—“

“ _Whatever_ , if you’d just _chill_ for a second and recognize that when it comes to getting away, you’re not really an authority, okay?” This is what happens, she tries to be nice and ends up being meaner than she should, but it’s his fault.

She _wants_ to be nice. She wants to — hug him, tell him she’s missed him, that they all have, that they’re still mad at him but they’re going to do this for him because they love him. But David’s never wanted to hear that stuff; he’s too much like Mom, allergic to feelings and terrified of honesty. Thank god he’s a con artist, really, he’d be so awful at anything else.

David’s all set to volley off some response when Ted comes back, using one of those sensible four-cup-holder things to hold three drinks. She married the best man alive. “So,” he says, handing out drinks, “I take it there’s no cake pops left for Shannon and the other techs.”

“We were just taste testing them.” David does Winning Smile Number Three, which Alexis taught him and should work on Ted, and sure enough Ted just shakes his head and goes back into the bakery. Best man _alive_.

“What I was saying _was_ ,” she continues, “The garage has the van we need, Dad and I will be ready to go. All you have to do is get Mom and everybody rounded up, get the stuff, and meet us in the back.”

“Oh, sure, no sweat.”

“And avoid Sebastien,” she adds, because honestly, David shouldn’t be within ten _miles_ of this job but _obviously_ he has to get his grubby little paws all over it.

“And _Patrick_ ,” says David, rummaging around the box for another cake pop.

It’s the first time she’s heard David say his name in over five years. “Patrick as in… well, not _your_ Patrick anymore, I guess. Patrick Brewer?”

“Thanks,” David says. “Yes, Patrick Brewer who is not my Patrick anymore.”

It still doesn’t make sense. “Why would _Patrick_ be at the Gala?”

David finds a pumpkin pop and eats it in one mouthful, chewing angrily. “He’s Sebastien’s plus-one,” he mumbles.

“ _What_? Why wouldn’t he have _told_ me that?” Alexis grabs her phone and pulls up her WhatsApp. The last thing from Patrick was something from a few days ago about an accordion he was thinking about buying. “What the hell?”

“Um, I see your ‘what the hell’ and raise you a ‘what the fuck’ — you and Patrick are—“ David grabs her phone from her hand, getting cream cheese frosting all over it. “Oh my _God!_ You’ve been _texting_ him this whole time?”

“David, just because you screwed things up doesn’t mean we’re like, prohibited from talking to him — give that _back_ ,” she hisses, aware that a really old lady is tsking at them as she tries scratching David’s eyes out.

“So when exactly were you planning on telling me that you’ve been communicating with my ex for the past — how long have you been talking?”

“Since you went away, David, it’s not like we were just going to like, _abandon_ him. He does our _taxes_! Plus like,” she makes another try to get at her phone, “We still care about him.”

“‘We’? Who’s ‘we,’ you and _Ted_?” He’s scrolling through past messages. “Oh my _God_ , does he still come to Wednesday night dinners?”

“ _No!”_ she protests. “Not — anymore!”

David waves her phone in her face; he’s starting to turn purple. “This is _you_ , from _November,_ asking _my ex-husband_ if he could bring, _and I quote_ , ‘those cute little puff things from that bakery across from the gallery.’ I can’t _believe_ you!”

“Okay, so he _did_ come for a while. Like for… four and a half years. But he stopped coming like six months ago, okay? He said he had some business thing he had to do on Wednesdays—“

“Yes, the business thing he’s doing? Is _Sebastien_ ,” David thrusts the phone back in her face.

Alexis gapes. “I mean, I know he has a type, but like—“

David gapes back. “Sebastien and I are nothing alike!”

“You _literally_ impersonated each other during that thing in Morocco,” she reminds him. “They couldn’t tell you apart. Anyway, maybe he did come to dinners for a while, so what? No offense, David, but we always liked him better anyway.”

“Wow, so I literally lost my _whole family_ in the divorce,” David shrieks.

Alexis opens her mouth to protest, but — it’s not like he’s wrong.Wednesday night dinners that first year had been at the fugly cramped little studio Patrick had moved into, because he wouldn’t come out to Long Island. Patrick, either quiet and hurt or drunk and bitter, would spend the night interrogating them all about their pasts, the jobs they’d done, who they’d taken from and what. It had been excruciating, but they told him everything, the way David _should_ _have_ from the start. After a while there were fewer questions, and a while later Patrick made his first joke about the Rose crime family, startled by his own smile.

So it had been worth it.

David doesn’t wait for her to find something to say; he shuts up the empty box and stomps over to the trash at the corner, jamming it in with a lot more vigor than is probably necessary.

Ted comes out, carrying a bag. He takes in David, swearing at the trash can, and says, “So. I guess brunch is probably not happening.”

*

“All right, honey,” says Johnny, trying to go for light and breezy, “You’ll be using this cane; he’s got a bad right foot, apparently. Remember to—“

“Lean on it as though I required the assistance, yes, John, I am aware how imitation works. Or need I remind you of my award-winning Richard III?”

Johnny doesn’t respond to that (the award had been one they’d stolen from the lobby the night before opening), just hands her the cane. She walks the length of the Apothecary, favoring her right foot.

David, sitting in the makeup chair with the wig still only semi-attached, applauds snidely. Moira whirls and glares, and Johnny wonders exactly when this family went so far off the rails.

It was before David’s whole… episode, that was for sure. It had been brewing for a while; David’s always been the black sheep, even in this family, agitating against Moira’s lead and wanting to strike out on his own. Part of Johnny suspects Patrick was part of that — though he’s never known if he was a symptom or a cause. It doesn’t matter much now.

Moira settles in the other chair, clutching the cane like she’s thinking of using it on one of them. She’s been back in town for a week — they’ve talked about it, and he’s not really a hundred percent onboard with whatever it is they’re planning, but Moira’s always done her own jobs, even when they were running cons on the regular. It’s done, at any rate, the painting stashed somewhere, and there’s not much use arguing about it now.

“I’m still unclear as to why we had to do this simultaneously,” she says, not looking at David. “Surely you could ensure David’s disguise was ready at some other time.”

David huffs and answers for him: “Because Dad’s going to have to get us both ready at the same time on the night, and _I_ want to make sure the timing works out.”

“I do, too,” Johnny admits. “Some of this stuff is a little tricky to put on.”

Prosthetics never used to be his preference; he preferred makeup, costumes, padding to make people look bigger or good tailoring to make them look smaller. But this was a whole other level, and he wanted to get everything right.

“So long as it’s easy enough to pull off,” Moira mutters.

*

Getting David invited to the Gala is a technical impossibility; too many double-checks and security clearances, other assistants armed with clipboards and ambition. A ticket to the pre-Gala Vogue party, however, is no sweat; he complains a little bit about being listed as Twyla’s date but not as much as she was expecting, and he even picks her up (which would probably be more sweet if she and Mandy weren’t staying at the Apothecary a few doors down from him, but it’s sweet enough). And if everything goes right tonight, they’ll have a green light for tomorrow’s Gala shenanigans.

Everything just has to go right tonight.

“Your name is Alexandr Smekhov,” she reminds him. “You’re the son of a famous actor from Russia—“

“Okay, I know it’s been a long time, but you _have_ to remember how bad I am with accents,” he says, flipping through the ID as they make their way through Washington Square. “I sound like Borat with a head cold.”

“I know,” Twyla says, because she sympathizes, even though _criminy_ does he need to get better pop culture references. “We can say you were educated in Canada. Put these on,” she instructs.

“Oh god,” he says, squinting at the glasses, “Why am _I_ wearing them?”

“They overwhelm my face,” Twyla explains.

“Ugh,” says David, and puts them on.

They meet up with Stevie and Ronnie at the fountain; they’re dressed considerably less fancy, ready for their part of the evening. “Remember, not until Mandy gets you the keys,” David says, and the three of them wave him off and head back east toward Bowery.

Twyla takes a deep breath. There’s always this moment in every job, where everything up to that point was just prep, something you can walk away from; but then it tips down into the rollercoaster of the job itself, no going back, no way out but through. They’re committed now.

The party itself is a pre-echo of the Gala: muted repetition of the theme, fewer celebrities and more hassled staffers, food that’s a little less impressive and a DJ instead of a quartet. It’s still overwhelming; Twyla left home a long time ago but there’s something in her country heart that still gets a little dazzled by this kind of shindig.

David, bless his heart, looks bored. “Okay, we find Sebastien, we do the thing, we get _out_ ,” he says. “Mandy and Ray are around?”

Twyla nods. Ray’s rich enough to merit an invitation, and Mandy had gotten herself on the catering staff: another invisible person in the crowd. “Are you sure Mandy’s ready for this?” Twyla murmurs. “She seems—“ _young_ , is what she doesn’t say.

David hears it. “How old were _you_ when you started?” he asks, which isn’t fair because he knows — he was _there_.

“Okay,” she says, and puts on a bright smile as Meridith bears down on her. “See you at the Remedy.”

*

Ray is chatting with a delightful young person who assures him she’s all the rage on Instagram when he sees David, looking _very_ suave and undercover in some glasses and a nice navy suit. “Excuse me, it was lovely talking to you about hashtags,” he says; he definitely remembers her using that word and you should always give people the impression that you care about what they are saying.

David is already making his way over with two flutes of champagne, promptly offering one. A fine young man. “Lovely to see you here,” Ray says, trying to remember the right name: “Alexandr?”

“Yes, hi, l’chaim,” says David, clinking classes.

“You don’t have an accent.” Ray’s disappointed. An accent, he’s found, can’t help much with disguise but can help enormously with execution. He’s made a great deal of money from being underestimated by white people who don’t listen to him after they hear him.

“Spoken like someone who’s forgotten Ibiza,” says David. “Anything interesting so far?”

“Sebastien Raine is over there,” he reports. “I must say, if we had been a bit more forward-thinking, we probably could have gotten away with about a half-million tonight. The ‘glitterati’ certainly live up to their name — so much jewelry, so poorly secured!”

“Next time, okay?” David mutters. “Let’s go. This suit is giving me a rash.”

Sebastien spots Ray first, which is flattering. “Wow, Ray,” he says, holding out a hand. “Nice see you.”

“Sebastien, looking as… tall as ever,” Ray says. You should always make a complimentary observation about someone when meeting them after a long absence, especially if you don’t like them. “This is most unexpected!”

“I’ll say,” says Sebastien. Ray glances at David, who’s busy adjusting his glasses. “David,” Sebastien says.

“In the flesh,” says David. Sebastien leans in for a kiss on David’s cheek. Ray looks away and catches sight of—

“Patrick!” He bustles over to Patrick, who’s standing nearby talking to a Kardashian with a glass of something that is not champagne and a blank, pleasant smile. Ray gives him a hug, mindful of the glass, and the Kardashian drifts off. “It’s been _so_ long!”

Ray last saw Patrick at his wedding; they hadn’t been particularly close, but as the person responsible for David and Patrick meeting, he had been awarded an invitation and a nice table at the reception. After that, he’d assumed Patrick would enjoy a life of wedded bliss or a suitable mourning period when David finally did something so stupid it got him killed.

Patrick looks positively astonished to see him. “Ray? You’re — hi,” he says, before he glances over Ray’s shoulder with narrowed eyes. “Okay, so this is maybe more of a surprise than it should be. You’re here with — do they even let felons into places like this?”

That was a question that was bound to result in some misunderstandings. “My invite did not include a plus-one, alas,” he says. “But if you’re speaking of my companion there, that is Alexandr Smekhov, son of a famous Russian actor.”

“Please tell me he’s not trying an accent,” Patrick mutters, taking a drink.

“No,” Ray assures him.

“And those Groucho Marx glasses, is that his idea of a disguise? Because it could use some work. I thought you guys were good at this stuff?”

“I believe my friend has… an… astigmatism.” Ray is fairly sure that’s the correct term. His mother has one. “Very tragic.”

“Oh, very,” Patrick says. “So what is this, exactly?” He waves the glass at Ray, at David and Sebastien (who are still talking, it seems, with no one stabbed yet), and at the crowd in general.

“A party?” Ray tries.

Patrick looks at him. Ray remembers that look keenly from the few months that Patrick was his accountant, before David stole him away. It’s the look of a man who is trying not to throttle you with your own 1040s.

“So if I go find a security guard and tell them that Alexandr Smekhov is actually David Rose—“

Ray’s floundering a bit, he’s aware. This is why he really should have just stayed as the “bank roll.” But he likes being “in on the action,” and this seemed like a nice harmless opportunity. He clears his throat. “Or,” he says, “You could refrain from doing that? Wouldn’t that also be enjoyable?”

“Just out of curiosity,” Patrick says, still glaring at him, “How many of David’s friends are criminals?”

He’s saved from having to answer by the arrival of David himself, accompanied by Sebastien. “This is quite the gathering,” Sebastien declares, toasting them all with his flute of champagne. “Like a college reunion.”

“Sadly, we can’t stay,” David says.

“Can’t you?” Patrick asks, his head cocked. “We’re at a pretty big-deal party, _Alexandr_. I’d be amazed if you had other plans this evening.”

Ray can feel his blood pressure spiking _well_ beyond recommended levels. David smiles beatifically. “I’ve always got plans, Patrick.”

“Caio!” Ray calls as David drags him toward the exit, somehow cutting a swathe through the crowd. Ray catches sight of Mandy for an instant before they’re deposited neatly on the sidewalk, the cars shushing to a stop to let out more partygoers.

“I don’t see why _I_ had to go,” Ray comments as they head to the the Remedy Diner. “It’s _you_ Patrick was threatening to have arrested.”

“He threatened to have me arrested?” David looks like he’s trying not to smile. He holds the door open for Ray. “Good to know I haven’t lost my touch.”

They get a table and David asks politely about Ray’s newest business venture, a KonMari-style organization service, which he has high hopes for. It’s a nice gesture, especially since Ray can tell David’s mind is only perhaps twenty percent focused on what he’s saying.

The hours tick by; Ray tries not to think too hard about what they’re waiting for. They’re too far away for any sirens to be a reliable indicator that something’s gone wrong; all they can do is sit and chat, in full view of customers and waitstaff.

Mandy arrives first, sliding into the booth next to David. “So good news and bad news. Bad news: I couldn’t lift the key fob off of the guy,” she starts.

David pinches his nose. “Okay, yes, that qualifies as bad news.”

Mandy makes a very teenager-related noise. “I _tried_ ,” she huffs. “He doesn’t _have_ one. I checked every pocket — no keys, no wallet, _nothing_. Well,” she makes a face, “He’s got some _condoms_ but—“

“Ew,” says David.

“I concur,” says Ray.

“ _Anyway_ , the good news is his boyfriend, that guy who works at the gallery? He had one, so I just took his.”

“You stole the keys… from my ex-husband,” David says, clarifying.

Mandy rears back. “Wait, that guy’s your _husband?_ ”

“ _Ex_ , and I’m going to choose _not_ to be offended by your shock. And the _second_ Ronnie and Stevie get here, you’re putting those keys _back_ , all right? I don’t want to get murdered by my ex and end up the subject of a Lifetime movie.”

Fortunately for all involved, Ronnie and Stevie make their entrance just at that moment. “Done,” Stevie says, never one for expounding unnecessarily. “You did the thing?” she asks, stealing David’s milkshake with one hand and making a vague eyeglass-related gesture with the other. Ray admires her dexterity.

“Yes, and give that _back_ ,” David demands.

“We’re a go for tomorrow, it looks like,” Ronnie says, leaning away from them both and handing the keys back to Mandy, who scrambles out the door. “As long as nobody screws up.”

Stevie snorts and gets milkshake up her nose. Ray beams at them all. It’s important to always project confidence, especially when you’re not at all confident.

*

It’s only three am when Roland gets back to the Apothecary; Joss is pacing up and down with Roland Jr., singing something sweet about sharks. Everybody else seems to be gone home or asleep except for Stevie, who never sleeps anyway.

“So the generators are all in place,” he announces. Joss hands Roland Jr. off and goes over to her station, checking up on the cams that Ronnie got going for them last week. “The security guys were really helpful. One of them gave me his demo tape.”

“That’s nice, honey,” Joss tells him. Roland Jr. makes a grab for his beard, which he does when he’s getting ready for some pretty serious Number Twos, so Roland grabs an extra diaper and some wipes out of their bag and heads for the changing station that David so thoughtfully set up for them in a storage closet down in the basement.

It’s a funny thing, having a baby around again. When Mutt was a baby, Roland was barely out of diapers himself, it felt like, nineteen and stupid, half the time feeling so guilty about wrecking Joss’s life that he couldn’t stand to hold the poor kid. It’s been a long time since, plenty more chances for both of them to ruin each other’s lives but they’ve never quite done it, even if Mutt doesn’t talk to them as much as Joss would like. It’s not like Rollie Jr. is some kind of do-over, but there’s something about knowing that they’ve got someone to take care of again, somebody that isn’t just them.

He kind of likes it.

By the time he gets everything cleaned up and disposed of — the incinerator’s just down the hall, and David gave him his blessing to burn anything baby-related — and comes back upstairs, Stevie and Joss are debating something in low voices.

“So!” Roland says. “Does it look okay?”

Stevie makes a shushing motion with her hands, but Joss just smiles. “Ready to go! You did a great job tonight, honey.”

“I just did what I was told,” he says, giving her the hello kiss that he missed out before. “Speaking of which, it sounds like everything’s set up for tomorrow?”

“Tonight,” Stevie corrects, “And yes. Positions are at six.”

“Speaking of which,” Roland says, “I don’t really have a spot yet. You mentioned you were gonna wait until everything was set up, remember?”

Stevie nods, her eyes wide. “Yes. Yes, I did say that, didn’t I. Um. The best place for you. Jeez. That’s a good point, Roland.”

“Rollie, honey,” says Joss, “I think the best place for you is probably…here.”

Roland frowns. “But you’re going to be at that cafe on Fifth, right? What if you need help?”

“I know honey, but you know, I honestly think you’re going to have the most important job of the night, because you can make sure little Roland Junior is happy, and fed, and clean, and safe. Far, far away from all of… this.”

Roland considers. “I mean, if you really think that’s where I’ll be most useful,” he says slowly. Stevie and David are kind of hopeless, but Joss is the most brilliant woman in the world; he’s stayed alive this long because he does what she thinks is best.

“Absolutely,” says Joss, smiling her beautiful smile. “Just — stay here, honey, and hopefully I’ll be home just in time to pump.”

“Thank _God_ ,” Stevie says, adding, “You know, because she’s right. Young life is so, so precious, you know? Gotta keep those babies… yeah. Just such a great thing. Thank you, Roland, really.”

“No problem,” he says, cheerful. “We still get two shares of the money, right?”


	3. Chapter 3

David loves the subway. It’s slow and unreliable and falling apart at the seams, but it’s still one of the great liminal spaces of the city, where anyone might do anything. A nondescript guy in a tux doesn’t get a first glance, much less a second.

Ronnie and Stevie are busy in his earpiece: checking in, covering angles, arranging the evening. His input is neither necessary nor welcome, so he just listens as the subway makes the line crackle and fade through the stations. He comes up at 86th and heads west, still unremarkable in the late-afternoon slanting sunlight.

The crowds thicken as he approaches Fifth Avenue and crosses over into the cobblestoned shade of Central Park. Even this close to the Met, the people he sees are elderly couples walking their dogs or brisk people in suits coming home or young kids giggling with their hands laced together; it’s not until he passes the playground that the cameras and lights and cars squeeze out the everyday New Yorkers.

In another life, David would live for this — the red carpet that’s just a little bit pink, the monstrous gold-tinted tent that hangs over the front, a wall of cameras that threatens to crash over the slow parade of celebrities. Everything about this is too much, too bright and too loud and too garish; in another life, David laps it up.

In this one, he’s got a job to do.

Stevie meets up with him at 7:17 on the dot, in a space just north of the first crush. “Best wishes,” she says, squinting up at him warily.

“Warmest regards,” he says. He can’t wink — the latex is fragile over his eyebrows — but she rolls her eyes as if he had, so apparently the disguise is at least convincing enough to make her pause.

Last night, Sebastien had been careful: nothing in his pockets, nothing for them to take and use against him. But David just needed his face — a hi-res three-dimensional scan, courtesy of Ronnie’s glasses, that he captured while Sebastien smirked his way through their painful small talk. David still can’t remember what he said; he’d been too busy keeping his hands to himself when what he wanted to do was slap Sebastien to the ground.

But it got them what they wanted, and now David’s got a foolproof pass: Sebastien’s face, which the entire staff has memorized (because God help you if you’re a caterer who doesn’t know who Anna Wintour’s friends are). All for the small price of some prosthetics and his dignity.

“This is itchy as hell,” he confides as they eel through the back entrance, security giving Stevie a stink-eye but letting her through once he makes a show of grabbing her ass. “Also kind of depressing that Sebastien’s sluttiness is something the staff got briefed on.”

“Ooh, Mr. Raine,” she giggles, and pulls him into the anonymous throng of black-clad assistants to-ing and fro-ing in the back halls. “Mr. Rose, you still en route?” asks Stevie, echoing just a fraction through the earpiece as they make their way through.

“We should be there on time, if Alexis stays on the right side of the road for once,” says Dad, overlaid with Alexis protesting, “Oh my _God_ , it’s called _offensive driving_ , Dad!” before Ronnie mercifully cuts them short from the group.

Twyla appears out of the crowd, clipboard in hand and a headset clamped on her head, her heels staccato on the marble. She hands David a clipboard. “Pretend you’re really interested in this,” she orders.

“Is Mom here?” he asks, frowning (not too hard, he can _feel_ the latex shifting restlessly against his eyebrows) down at a clipboard that might as well be in Latvian.

She nods and steals back the clipboard, smiling blankly at someone as they scoot past. “She’s at the table, holding court. Apparently this Herb Ertlinger is some kind of a big deal.”

He is; he’s also about $2 million in debt, and had welcomed the opportunity for a little easy money in exchange for a starring role in tonight’s events. He wouldn’t even have to leave Vanuatu. “The chance to be portrayed by no less a performer than Moira Rose,” he’d burbled, leaning heavily on his cane even while sitting down, “Such a treat is not to be gainsaid.”

“She always loved a good trouser role,” David mutters. They’re coming up on Great Hall, where everyone stops for a breather before they’re gently bullied through the Egyptian wing and deposited safely at the Temple of Dendur to enjoy the graceful letdown of dinner after the high of the red carpet. It’s the most dangerous part of this heist, getting through without inviting more attention than they can afford; Sebastien’s face is, as always, more of a curse than a blessing.

“Here’s my mark,” Twyla says. “Good luck.” She makes a right turn and scoots past another wall of security, leaving David and Stevie to navigate across the hall without getting entangled by anyone who wants some part of Sebastien Raine.

They’re almost across when Stevie digs her elbow into his ribs and hisses, “ _Faster_.” David doesn’t look back — he’s not an idiot — but he manages to squeeze past the last handful of distracted interns and around the corner, pulling Stevie into an embrace that anyone noticing them will look away from.

“I should’ve known this whole thing was a ploy,” Stevie says, wrinkling her nose at him as she puts her hand around his neck. “At long last, our chemistry can’t be denied.”

“That’s just nasty,” Ronnie mutters in their earpiece, and David has to stifle his laugh against Stevie’s cheek.

“Are we clear?” he asks.

“Hold up,” says Ronnie. “Raine’s on the steps ahead of schedule.”

“Fuck,” David mutters. Sebastien’s never on time to anything, much less one of the first arrivals. Trust him to fuck them without even realizing it.

Stevie bites her lip. “Can we blow the generators early?”

There’s an agonizing pause while Ronnie mutters at Jocelyn on the other line. “Yep,” Jocelyn says, coming on and not sounding happy about it. “But we’ve still got fifteen minutes, no matter when we start.”

“Everybody in position?” David asks. Stevie, still pressed up against him, lifts an eyebrow and he risks the latex to grin at her. There’s a chorus of yeses in his ear, including Alexis and Dad. “Then let’s go.”

“You’ve got forty-five seconds to get to the bathroom,” Ronnie instructs. “Starting _now_.”

They stumble into the bathroom, giggling for whoever might see them; once they’re inside Stevie shoves him away from her, hopping up onto the counter to rummage around in her purse. She pulls out some wipes and hands them over. “Get that shit off your face,” she instructs.

“I see how it is, drag me in here only to complain about my looks. I thought we had something special,” he complains as he peels off the latex. It gets stuffed into a little baggie along with the wig; after he cleans off the rest of the makeup the wipes get added, too, and Stevie jams the whole thing back into her purse.

“I didn’t bring mousse,” Stevie says, apprehensive, and David glances in the mirror. The wig’s done a number; fortunately, David was married to a boy scout and knows the merits of preparation.

“Voila,” he says, pulling out a travel-sized bottle from his pocket. “Don’t leave home without it.”

“Twyla was right, we need to get you some updated references,” is all Stevie says.

“Ten seconds, boys and girls,” Ronnie warns, which is five more than David needs; he gets his hair on the eccentric side of presentable just in time for the lights to go out.

They slip out into more pitch black; ahead of them, the lights of the Gala are still shining bright, most of the party clearly unaware that anything’s gone wrong in the rest of the building. A handful of alarmed-looking assistants and security people hustle past as they reemerge into the Grand Hall, but everyone else is focused on the parade, watching a bank of TV screens showing the red carpet just a few feet away.

Sebastien’s leering on one screen, his teeth on display; as the camera pulls out David sees Patrick to the side, his hands shoved inelegantly into his pockets and a smile on his face that would fool almost anyone else. Sebastien reaches out a hand and Patrick takes it, saying something that Sebastien leans down to hear and then laughs at.

“Don’t have a rage stroke right now, okay?” Stevie says. “We’ve gotta go before they get to the top of the staircase.”

She’s right — they can’t linger — but he takes two more seconds to watch Patrick climb the stairs, his free hand smoothing down the front of his jacket, the pale flare of his throat above a slightly crooked bowtie.

David’s never seen Patrick in a tuxedo. Their wedding had been a half-drunken elopement in Vegas; David sober as a judge on the last antibiotics after a nasty bout of appendicitis, Patrick and Stevie both drunk as skunks, the whole trip an impulse. Stevie and a Tina Turner impersonator were their witnesses and they wore horrible tacky tourist shirts Patrick had bullied them all into. One of the only things David was allowed to have in his cell was the grainy photo booth strip from right after, the three of them blotchy and beaming, Stevie on one side and Patrick on the other, giving David great big sloppy kisses on his cheeks as he squinted in delighted disgust.

“David,” Stevie says, and he lets her drag him down another hallway, back into the dark.

*

Mandy’s got a trayful of drinks when Ronnie blows the generators; she takes a deep breath and hopes the comms don’t pick it up.

They do. “You’ll be fine,” Twyla says, almost (but not totally) drowning out the background argument Mr. Rose and his daughter are having about some job they pulled ten years ago. “Just go through it like we practiced.”

Ronnie starts the countdown. From here, David and Stevie have fifteen minutes to get everything done. Mandy keeps handing out alcohol and avoiding the grabbers, of which there are a lot; rich guys aren’t that much different from subway guys, it turns out.

Five minutes in, Ronnie says, “Mandy and Moira, go.” Mandy takes another breath. Last night had just been some lifts and drops, easy. This is going to be harder; this is going to be _acting_.

She walks past Mrs. Rose, whose admirers have gone to their own tables to chow down; right on cue, Mrs. Rose’s hand shoots out and grabs her by the elbow. She really is pretty good at imitating a gross old dude. “Just who I was looking for,” she wheezes, her voice about an octave lower than usual. She totters to her feet, still holding on. “My dear, I feel positively light-headed — would you be a doll and help me to a commode?”

“Of course, Mr. Ertlinger,” Mandy says, trying not to wince at the grip on her arm. “Right this way.”

Mrs. Rose leans heavily and Mandy almost stumbles. “That’s right,” Mrs. Rose says under her breath, “Pretend I’m a _very_ heavy man. Excellent improvisation, Mandy.”

Mandy bites her lip and says, loudly, “I hope you’re enjoying the party, sir?”

They get to the bathroom, which Mrs. Rose makes a show of rejecting. “Oh, no,” she exclaims. “For what _I_ need to do, this is _far_ too close to civilization. Let’s go… _this_ way,” she says, and they stagger together down the hall.

*

“Okay, kids, three minutes before this coach turns back into a pumpkin,” Ronnie says over comms. Stevie, breathing hard and sweating like a pig under all the bullshit corsetry and spandex she’s wearing in to fit into this stupid dress, leans against the rumbling van. They’re anonymous amongst the crush of catering trucks; nobody’s noticed them. Beside her, David is fanning himself with a map of the Met, flapping his open jacket to get the cool night air.

They’re finished ahead of schedule. Mrs. Rose and Mandy are safely tucked in the van with Mr. Rose, Alexis, and some very nice artwork that she and David have spent the better part of a month arguing over. Twyla’s en route, and they still have three minutes.

“Have they noticed good old Herb is missing yet?” Stevie asks.

Ronnie snorts. “ _Oh_ yeah, running around like headless chickens. Checking the nearby bathrooms; plus they’re starting to get antsy about the generators. If Twyla gets here we may want to go up early.”

“We’re all set for it,” Jocelyn pipes up, cheerful the way you can be when you’re that far away from the arrest radius. “Just give the word.”

Stevie steals David’s map and uses it on herself, ignoring his scowl. “Okay, so once Twyla gets here—“

“Hold up,” says Ronnie; she’s been calm, almost bored, this whole time, but her voice is sharp now. “Raine’s on the move — he’s just gone into the Arms and Armor wing.”

“Fuck. Is he heading for Gallery 630 yet?” David asks.

“Oh, he’s going _straight_ there,” says Ronnie. “Just took the stairs.”

“Fuck,” David repeats, and sprints for the back entrance. Stevie follows him, grateful for her sensible wedges.

She’s got the museum layout memorized; she doesn’t need the map in her hands to know there’s no way they can get there in time, even if they had a plan to stop Raine with — what? They don’t have weapons, and David’s squeamish about blood anyway. “Alexis, as soon as Twyla—“

“I’m on it,” and that’s _Twyla,_ quiet and a little breathless, like she’s running too. “I’m intercepting. Um, Mr. Raine?” she calls, her voice higher-pitched, syrupy. “Mr. Raine! Oh my gosh, I’m so glad I caught you.”

Stevie almost runs into David, who’s stopped in his tracks with his hand to his ear. “Twyla,” he says, urgent. “That’s—“

“Not gonna work,” Stevie finishes.

David snorts. “No, it will _one hundred percent_ work,” he says. “Bite your lip when you talk to him,” he tells Twyla through the comms. “Smile at him and then look away, like you’re nervous. He likes them shy.”

The power comes back on halfway through David coaching Twyla through her very grody seduction. “I can loop the cameras in the rooms you’re in,” Ronnie warns, “But I can’t do dick about security guards. So _move_.”

“Get the van out of here,” David orders Alexis, heading for the stairs. “We’ll use plan D.”

Plan D: whoever gets stuck in the museum stays at the party, strolling out the front entrance with the departing crowd. It’s a risk, exponentially more so for David, whose face is his own again (and whose face is one that at least a couple people here want to punch). But they’re down a couple options.

Over comms, Twyla giggles — Raine doesn’t sound in any mood to let her go, now that he’s been distracted. “We need to get her,” David says, looking up and down the hallway. “Before he sucks her blood or makes her agree to pose naked for his next gallery exhibit or something.”

“I don’t think she can tell us where she is,” Stevie says, just as there’s a _very_ gross noise in her earpiece that she wishes she could un-hear. “You head over to the American Wing, I’ll check the rooms closer to 630.”

Gallery 630 is a nondescript little room that usually holds a handful of those French paintings that are more frame than canvas. Not Stevie’s thing by a long shot, even if her thing was art instead of cash. But it’s got good natural light streaming in, so when some other gallery needs to be renovated, artwork migrates there.

At this particular moment, for example, Gallery 630 is home to all five of the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s paintings by Johannes Vermeer.

She finds Raine and Twyla well short of 630, thank God, in the long hallway by the grand staircase. Twyla catches sight of her and grimaces over Raine’s shoulder, gesturing frantically with one closed fist behind his back. Stevie creeps up as quietly as she can and stretches her hand out; it’s Twyla’s earpiece. She stashes it in her purse before loudly, pointedly clearing her throat.

The fucker doesn’t even jump; too much experience to remember what shame is, probably. “Stevie Budd,” he says, turning to face her. He’s still got his arm around Twyla, but she manages to eel out of his grasp and shuffle unobtrusively out of range. Raine, whose attention span is about on level with a concussed goldfish, doesn’t notice as he gives Stevie his patented once-over. She’s been subjected to it any number of times; it doesn’t faze her but she’s aware it’s supposed to. “You really should do more nude modeling, Stevie. Your body—“

“Is about ready to cold-cock your body, and not in a way you’ll like,” she says. “You ever learn how to keep your hands to yourself?”

“Well, shit,” Ronnie mutters. “Please don’t kill anybody in the Met, Stevie.”

“Sebastien doesn’t count as a person,” David says, from wherever the hell he’s disappeared to.

Raine shakes his head. “You know, I wondered why David looked so odd last night. Aside from whatever it is five years in prison can do to you,” he adds, offhand, a smile on his smug fucking face. Her hands twitch with the effort not to throttle him. “And I’m realizing, it’s because he didn’t have you trailing after him like he used to.” He cocks his head. “It’s all making sense now.”

She feels her eyebrows going up. “Jealousy doesn’t look good on you, Raine.”

“Jealous? Of _David Rose_?” Raine laughs, a big fake thing. Score. “What exactly does he have that I’d be jealous of, Stevie?”

“Not much, anymore,” Stevie admits. In her ear, David makes an agitated noise. “But five years ago? A gallery, a great if not entirely legal side business, a nice apartment, a family that tolerated him, and a husband who did a lot more than that. How many of those things did you take?”

“And how many of those did you take over?” Raine shoots back. “Took over that charming little warehouse of his. Took over a lot more than that, from what I’ve heard.”

“Yeah, to hold onto until David came back. I never wanted to take over his _life_.”

“Stop arguing with Sebastien and get _out_ of there,” David shrieks, which is probably good advice but too late now.

“No, you were always a little too into David to want to be him, weren’t you?” Raine says. “Tell me, is he still a good fuck? It’s been a long time since I had the pleasure, but I’m sure David’s been obliging you since he got out. Did he learn anything new?”

He’s pitched his voice just a little louder, but Stevie can still hear the footsteps underneath it. She turns, expecting David, and moreover expecting David to be wielding the _Little Dancer_ like a baseball bat.

It’s Patrick, accompanied by two security guards who appear desperate to be literally anywhere on earth other than where they are right now. Stevie sympathizes. “Sebastien,” says Patrick, not so much as glancing at her, “I’ve been looking for you. Everything all right?”

“It’s fine,” Raine says. He shoots his cuffs and runs a thumb across his lips, catching some of poor Twyla’s lipstick. “We were just—“

“Yeah,” says Patrick, still watching Raine as if nobody else is even there, “I’m sure. Let’s get back to the party, shall we? They’re still looking for that guy — they’re going to clear out out the museum if he doesn’t turn up soon.”

“That seems alarmist, but what do I know?” says Raine, taking Patrick’s arm and slouching out of the gallery. One of the guards follows, the other stands awkwardly, giving a vague _please follow them so I can get you out of this area and keep my job_ gesture.

Stevie manages to get Twyla’s earpiece out of her back and into her hand without the guard noticing; as they make their way down the stairs, Twyla clasps Stevie’s hand. “Thanks, honey,” Stevie coos. “I was so _worried_ about you.”

“Ew,” say David, Ronnie, and Alexis in unison.

Twyla rolls her eyes just enough as she lets go, reaching up casually to scratch at her jaw, putting the earpiece back in. “He was _nibbling_ on my _ear_ ,” she mutters, quiet. “So I had to—“ she mimes taking out the earpiece.

Stevie looks closely at her. “At least you still have both earrings,” she says. “He’s _definitely_ done that before to a mark.”

Twyla’s expression is equal parts disgusted and impressed, so Stevie doesn’t add, “David taught him that trick.” Behind them, the guard mumbles into his walkie-talkie; ahead, Raine is talking over Patrick’s stiff-spined silence.

“Okay,” says Ronnie as they ease back into the Sackler Wing, the froth of the party still going strong; if anyone here is actually worried about Herb Ertlinger’s disappearance, they’re eating their feelings with gusto. “Generators are back up — we all clear, Jocelyn?”

“Looks like,” says Jocelyn. “I’m heading out now, Rollie Jr. is gonna need his dinner.”

“Got it,” says Ronnie. “Alexis, where are you now?”

“Just crossing Madison Avenue Bridge,” she says, sounding hassled. “We’d be further along, but _somebody_ thought I was supposed to take the Third Avenue—“

“I just said you might want to double check!” Mr. Rose protests, before — mercifully — Ronnie cuts them off from the general group.

“Yeah, by the way,” Ronnie says, “You’re underpaying me for the job. I had to listen to that _all night._ ”

“We’re all being underpaid,” Stevie assures her. “Okay, Twyla, you head out now. Me and David—“ she pauses. “David, where the fuck are you?”

“I’m — around,” David says, sounding hesitant. “I’m next to a big…urn?”

“So you’re lost,” Stevie says, her stomach sinking. The one guy who’s never been able to hold a floor plan in his head unless it was stapled there, and he’s wandering around the fucking _Met._

“I’m not _lost_ , I’m just a… a little unclear where I am,” David says, deflating audibly.

“David, I swear to fucking God,” Stevie mutters.

“You stole my map!” he protests, which is true; she’s still got it crumpled in her other hand, she realizes.

“The cameras are looped — I can’t see anymore than security can right now,” Ronnie says. “Give me five minutes.”

“Okay,” she says, turning to see where she can slip past security _again_ — and there’s Patrick, with that little smile she remembers back when he was truly, blisteringly furious. “Hey, Stevie,” he says.

“Hey there,” she says.

“Where is he?” he asks, genial.

Playing dumb isn’t going to get her out of this conversation faster. “He’s… around. I’m not entirely sure where,” she says.

“Really.” It’s that same even tone of voice he used on Sebastien. A thought occurred to her.

“You realize we’re not — doing anything with _Sebastien_ , right?” she says.

“Well, I’m aware you’re doing _something_ , and I don’t really know why I should care who you’re doing it with.”

It’s like they’re strangers — it’s worse, it’s like he used to give a shit about her and now doesn’t think she’s worth even the bare minimum of kindness. “Really? Because, last time, you cared so much you sent him to _prison_.”

“Who are you talking to?” David demands. Stevie ignores him. “Stevie!”

“Shut up,” she mutters.

Patrick catches it and frowns, but he looks like he’s still stuck on her last comment. Good. “What did you expect me to do, exactly?” he says, finally, and it’s five years ago all over again, reliving that insane stupid night, screaming at each other in the rain. “He stole a million dollar painting and hung it up on our _mantlepiece_.”

It’s actually worth about $35 million, but now’s not the time to argue that. “So?” she asks instead.

That hits home. Stevie’s on fire tonight. “So—“

“Yeah, _so_? He’s a thief and a liar, right? Well, you fell in love with both of them,” Stevie says. “Which one do you want him to give up?”

David’s sputtering in her ear. “Okay you’re definitely talking to Patrick and I’m objecting to _all_ of this—“

“David, stop talking,” Stevie orders, and either he does (unlikely) or Ronnie cuts him off from her channel (more likely).

Patrick’s staring at her like she’s a lady and a tiger wrapped up in one. “Which one I want him to give up,” he echoes.

“The way I see it,” she says, folding her arms, “David has three things he’s good at. Just three. He’s good at stealing. He’s good at lying. And he’s good at being with you. Now,” she allows, “He tried giving you up, and I can safely say that it’s pretty much killing him.”

Patrick looks ill. She’s glad. She’s tired of this, tired of Patrick and his outrage and his strong moral fiber that wouldn’t think of bending and so broke all three of them without a second thought. Tired of pretending he’s got a point when all he has is his endless supply of right and wrong. Tired of trying to balance on his fucking scales of justice like he isn’t blind.

“So he can’t give you up,” she says. “He won’t last much longer. Which means he can give up stealing, even though he’s _really good_ at stealing. Or he could give up lying, although in his line of business that could be tough. So maybe he’d just give up lying to you, if you ever bothered to fucking _ask_.”

“You think I should _ask_ him, like telling me the truth is some kind of _favor_?” Patrick steps forward; he’s not big and Stevie wouldn’t be intimidated if he was, but he’s too angry to get it through his thick skull.

“When did you ever give him the impression that you’d love him if he told you the truth?” she says, because she’s had fucking _enough_. “He gave you _everything_ he had, everything he had and everything he was, and you never bothered to ask how he got it or why, you didn’t care until it messed up your cute little white picket vision of what your life ought to be like. And you walked away the _second_ you found out the truth; you proved him _right_. You keep expecting an apology like you’ve earned it, like you’re _owed_. Well, Patrick Brewer, _fuck_ you. David doesn’t owe you _shit_ anymore. And neither do I.”

The anger drains out of his face like water, leaving something else. She’s seen it before; that night David’s appendix burst, the two of them grey and worn in the waiting room, a surgeon telling them it was very serious. Patrick had asked David to marry him a couple weeks before, and he held her hand until her knuckles ground together. “We should have gotten married already, we should be married by now,” he’d said, terrified. “What if I don’t get to be married to him?”

“Stevie,” Patrick says now, hollow. “I…”

She’s never been jealous of Patrick. Wary of him, at first — getting involved with someone who wouldn’t know a lock pick from a bump key had its risks — but he was steady and sarcastic and _good_ , good for David and good for her, too, in his way. He’d gang up on David along with her, teasing him until whatever spiral David had gone into in his head evened out. She’d liked David before Patrick came along, but she loved who David became, loving Patrick. She’d loved Patrick, too, right up to the moment he threw her partner in jail.

But if David’s looking for redemption in Patrick’s eyes, maybe they both deserve a shot at it.

“Put me through to David again?” Stevie asks Ronnie, who sighs heavily but complies. He’s still ranting; she catches “—going to feed it to the _pigeons_!” before she cuts him off.

“David, describe the nearest painting.”

“Oh, are you talking to me again?” She lets him stew; he folds like a cheap suit and says, “Uh, it’s a big fuck-off picture of some people on a boat? And there’s a flag.”

“Oh my god,” Stevie says. “Yeah, okay, stay put. Ronnie, cut him off again.”

“You do realize _I_ still have to listen to him, right?” Ronnie says, but David’s squawk cuts out halfway so Stevie calls it a win.

She glares at Patrick. “Take the stairs just past the hallway there,” she tells him. “You’ve got a thirty-second window before they remember to put a guard there. He’s in the American Wing, Gallery 760.”

“Okay,” says Patrick, then frowns. “Where’s Gallery—“

“Jesus Christ,” she mutters, and shoves the map in his hands. “ _Go_ , dumbass. And if you get him arrested again? Sebastien goes down, too.”

Patrick looks down at the map, and back up at her. There’s a tiny smile on his face; she worries that she might be smiling back. “Noted,” he says, and makes for the stairs.

*

The map’s wrinkled and the lighting’s terrible, but Patrick figures it out — up the stairs, left and straight through the next three galleries, and sure enough, there’s David staring at _Washington Crossing the Delaware_. He spins around when he hears Patrick coming and freezes, wide-eyed. “Okay, so you’re just sneaking up on everyone tonight.”

“If only you knew about my stealth abilities years ago,” Patrick says, before he can bite it back.

David sighs. “Sure.”

“What are you doing here?” Patrick asks. It’s not really what he wants to talk about, but this whole night has been weird; power outages and missing people and Stevie and Sebastien and _David_ , like some song he can’t figure out the harmony to.

“You keep asking me that,” David snaps. “Am I no longer supposed to what, inhabit space? I’m…” He waves his hands around, “Taking in the majesty of ugly American propaganda.”

“You’re half American,” says Patrick. “Unless that was a lie, too.”

“ _Ugh_ ,” says David, ever eloquent, and grabs at his ear, taking out — an earpiece, of course. “If you _really_ want to do this in the middle of the fucking American Wing, _fine._ Let’s do this.”

“So who’s on the other end of that?” Patrick asks. He doesn’t want to talk about this, either. “Ray? Stevie? Who else?” David makes a frustrated noise and turns on his heel, as if to march off toward whatever doom he’s picked out for himself. Patrick grabs at his shoulder and pushes him up against the wall. “Yes,” he adds, “I really want to do this in the middle of the fucking American Wing, David.”

“Okay first of all, _ow_ ,” David says. “I don’t recall you being this rough when we were married.”

Patrick steps in close; they’re almost eye to eye, and he’s never wanted to yank David down to his level more than this moment. “I don’t know what’s going on, but you need to tell me right now, or—”

“Or what?” David cocks his head. “You’ve already done the worst thing you could _possibly_ do to me, Patrick, so I’m curious as to what _exactly_ you think you can threaten me with now.”

Stevie said more or less the same thing, but it’s salt rubbed into a wound that should have scarred over years ago, hearing David say it. “You really want me to _apologize_ for getting you put away? I—“

He should say _I’d do it again,_ he should say _you shouldn’t have been a criminal in the first place_ , he should say a hundred things. They all crowd together and die in his throat.

David blinks, his eyelashes dark against his cheeks for a second before a big, lopsided grin takes over his face. “You’re so stupid,” he murmurs. “You _left_ me. _That’s_ what I meant; you left me and you’re dating _Sebastien_ , which, can we talk about your taste in men because, just, _yikes_.”

“Spoken like a true ex-husband,” Patrick says, trying not to smile, trying and failing because David called him stupid and thinks he’s dating _Sebastien_. “I’m not dating Sebastien.”

“Okay, well,” David sighs, “Fucking him then, if you want to be blunt. In some sort of… of _situation_ with him that I very much hope involves orgasms on your end.”

“Why do you very much hope it involves orgasms on my end?” Patrick’s out of practice following David’s insane logic, but he’s already lost the fight; David smells so good and he’s _such_ an idiot.

“Because… you deserve them?” David says, helpless. “I don’t know, I’m bad at being an ex-husband, I just want you—“ His hands make a waving negating motion between them, before settling, birdlike and tentative, on Patrick’s shoulders.

They’ve stood like this hundreds of times, thousands, his hands at David’s waist and David’s arms draped over his shoulders, fitting together. It feels like a dislocated joint snapping back into place, a blissful wash of relief at having something so wrong finally set right.

“You just want me?” Patrick says, because David made him sit through about a dozen rewatches of _French Kiss_.

“God, yes,” says David, staring at Patrick’s mouth. He clears his throat. “So, to be clear—“

“I’m not fucking Sebastien. I’m not dating Sebastien. I’ve never had a single sexual thought about Sebastien. He doesn’t wash his hands after he pees, you know how I feel about that.” His heart creaks with how hard it’s pounding. “Stevie told me you could give up lying or you could give up stealing. If I asked you.”

David makes a face. “I mean. If it’s a dealbreaker—“

“Did you steal my keys yesterday?” he asks, and watches the conversation David has with himself. “Yes or no, David,” he prompts.

“ _Technically_ no,” David says, fast and guilty and honest. “A — colleague did. I’m not telling you who.”

“Will you tell me why?”

“Not… yet,” David says, and that’s also the truth.

“And if I ask you to stop whatever it is you’re doing tonight, will you?”

David shuts his eyes, his head thunking against the wall. “Yes,” he sighs after a minute. “Yes. I _will_ be upset about it,” he warns. “But — yes.”

That’s true, too. “Okay,” Patrick says.

“Are you going to ask me to?” David looks — resigned, tired, as old as he actually is. This close, Patrick can see a single silver hair at his left temple.

It shouldn’t be easy. It shouldn’t be decided in the middle of the Metropolitan Museum of Art on a Monday evening, five years of thinking he’d never had a choice dissolving into this: a choice, an easy one. The easiest decision of his life.

His cheeks hurt. “I’m just a boy, standing in front of another boy, asking him—“

“Oh my _god_ , shut up,” David says, and kisses him.

“That’s not the line,” Patrick protests, grinning too broadly for the kiss to really land.

“There _is_ no line after that,” David huffs, pulling back. “Hugh Grant just stands there like a moron and lets her walk out. I can’t believe you don’t remember a _seminal_ —”

“Oh my god, shut _up_ ,” Patrick groans, and finally gets a real kiss, hot and a little bit mean, teeth on his lower lip. He wedges his hip between David’s thighs to keep him in place, his hands wrinkling David’s shirt under his tuxedo jacket.

“Now you’re stealing _my_ lines,” David complains, his voice a gratifying whine as he tightens his hold, pulling Patrick in. “I’ve missed you.”

“Shut up,” he repeats, fisting a hand in David’s stupid hair and pulling him in for another kiss. David tastes like champagne and chocolate strawberries, and it doesn’t matter that he’s a liar and a thief, it doesn’t matter that he’s probably breaking the law right this very second. It never did.

David’s hand scrabbles at his neck, tugging; he’s pulling Patrick’s bowtie loose and unbuttoning his shirt. “You have _got_ to stop wearing ties,” David mumbles against his jaw. His leg wraps around Patrick’s calf, keeping him close. “You never used to.”

“That’s because you burned all of them on like, our third date,” Patrick reminds him, grabbing David’s thigh and pulling it up to his waist, spreading him wider. David rolls his hips into him, eager like he always was, like he can’t wait for whatever comes next _._

“And yet here we are,” David gasps, “Right back where we started.”

“You can burn these, too,” Patrick promises, “Burn it all, I don’t care—“

“ _Fuck_ ,” David says, jerking up against him, his cock hard against the crease of Patrick’s thigh. He mouths a line down Patrick’s neck and bites down, _hard_ , at his collarbone, right where it would show if he didn’t keep himself buttoned up. “Don’t say that, I can’t — I have to — holy fuck — okay, _stop_.”

Patrick lets go of his leg, even if he can’t bring himself to step back; David’s got his hands fisted in the lapels of his jacket, so he can’t get far anyway. “David—“

“I have to go,” David says. “I have to, I can’t—“ He surges forward and kisses Patrick again, hungry. “Go back to the party,” he whispers. “Go back and please don’t fuck Sebastien.”

“I’m not going to fuck anybody,” Patrick says, trying to sound indignant but it comes out like a promise, if David’s smile is anything to go by. “David, what’s—“

“I’ll explain everything, okay? Just go. And thanks for this,” David adds, waving a wrinkled red and white paper — it’s the map, stolen out of Patrick’s pocket.

“Unbelievable,” Patrick mutters, and David’s smile broadens before he pushes Patrick away and disappears down another hallway, footsteps fading fast.

*

Jocelyn manages to get Roland, the baby, and whatever equipment she has left at the Apothecary loaded up in the car by midnight; if Sebastien remembers this place exists, it’s no longer safe, so the sooner they’re all gone the better. Stevie gives her a hug and tells her to keep an eye on the news for the next few days. “I’ll call once we’re,” and she makes a “safe” gesture with her hands. “Thank you. Both,” she adds, glancing up at Roland, who’s still rocking Rollie Jr. They’re over the bridge and home in New Kills before one am, which has to be a record.

Keeping an eye on the news these days means Twitter and the various feeds from major publications, but Jocelyn prefers NPR, the WNYC station tuned in and playing gently over the backyard. She finally tackles the flowerbeds near the back fence and Roland decides to try grilling again, although she makes him go buy that reserve fire extinguisher. Mutt even Facetimes them for a little while, to see how his little brother’s doing, and Rollie Jr. gives the phone a big raspberry kiss. It’s a nice day.

The national Morning Edition doesn’t have anything on it, but Richard Hake starts peppering his normal copy about pigeon racing and the latest problems at JFK with increasingly baffled reports. The disappearance of Herb Ertlinger is the first thing to get mentioned, police statements saying they’re continuing the search but do not suspect foul play at this time.

Doody doesn’t really hit the fan until halfway through Brian Lehrer, who gives up any semblance of regularly scheduled programming to report in increasingly bemused tones that one — no, two — _all five_ of the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s paintings by Johannes Vermeer have been stolen, replaced with poster prints sold at the Museum shop. “The theft occurred sometime during the Met Gala, an annual fundraising event held at the museum. Police are so far not indicating whether or not they suspect anyone attending.”

“Honey, are hot dogs supposed to explode like this?” Roland says, flinching away from the grill. Jocelyn wipes her hands on her jeans and gets up to rescue him.

*

Ronnie doesn’t wait by the phone for the all clear. She’s got her systems and her security, and Karen took the kids to see their grandma in Saskatoon for a few weeks. If things go wrong, she’s going to be the first person to know about it, _plus_ she won’t have to worry about her family getting caught in any crossfire.

But while the cops don’t come, neither does the all clear; not the first day, or the first week. _No contact until then_ , Stevie said, and Ronnie’s not really feeling bad about that. Between the Roses, the Schitts, that child of the corn David had dragged in from who knew where, and _Ray_ , the only person Ronnie’s taken any kind of a shine to was that girl with the Tarot cards who’d predicted she’d win ten bucks in the lottery.

It’s been almost three weeks by the time she gets it: a text from an unknown number. “Jazzagirl: we’re good. RB19M27.” So she calls Karen, tells her they can come home whenever, and the next day — Memorial Day, May 27th — she drives down to Ray’s place in Newark, getting there just a little past 7 pm.

Ray’s got everyone down by the pool, the pergola strung with lights that aren’t on yet and some easy listening nonsense playing softly. Everyone else is there already, along with a guy she doesn’t know: early 30s with one of those scruffy beards that’s been all the rage with white guys for the past twenty years out of the very mistaken assumption that it makes them look older. “Who’s that?” she asks Ray, who’s busy pouring drinks and asking people for their thoughts about the playlist he curated for this evening.

“That is Ted,” he says, as though that explains anything.

David drifts over, looking about as happy as he can when he’s within a hundred miles of his family. “Who invited _him_?” she demands, using her beer to gesture. “And who is he?”

“My brother-in-law, and _not me_ ,” David says.

He seems harmless enough; but a little while later she’s trapped in a conversation with him for her sins. “So what do you do, exactly?” Ronnie asks him. It’s not polite, in this context, but it’s also not polite inviting new people in after the con’s done, no matter who they’re married to. Alexis, clinging to his elbow, huffs at her.

“Me?” says Ted, jovial, like he was born perky. “I’m a vet. I work for the ASPCA on the Upper East Side? That’s where I met Alexis, actually.”

“Really.”

“I… may have hit a dog with a Vespa,” Alexis mutters, fiddling with Ted’s polo shirt collar.

“The dog was fine,” Ted assures her. “We just had to amputate a leg. And remove an eye. The tail was pretty much a goner, too.”

“Huh,” Ronnie says. “So did you name it Lucky?”

“ _Yes_ , we did!” Ted answers, delighted.

Thank God, Stevie chooses that moment to stand up on one of Ray’s chairs, grabbing David’s shoulder for balance. “Okay, so!” she says. “Pieces are either sold or they’re safe; as of right now, you all have four million, eight hundred thousand and change in the accounts, with more coming as the rest cools off. Except Ted,” she allows, “You’re going to have to be happy with Alexis’s share. I’d like to give a speech about how you’re all amazing and did great work, but speeches give me hives, so,” and she gestures at David, climbing down and batting his hand away as he tries to use her head as leverage to get up on the chair in turn.

“But _I_ ,” he says, wobbling a little bit, “As the mastermind behind this, would just like to say bravo to all of you. You each contributed in your own, _exceptionally_ unique ways, and we couldn’t have done it without most of you.” He looks like he considers applauding, but thinks better of it and gets back down.

And just like that, Ronnie and Karen are about twice as rich as they were ten minutes ago. They were wealthy before, wealthy enough that doubling doesn’t mean all that much, except as a way to keep score. She used to do that, before getting married, before the kids and diapers and pre-K and soccer practice and crawling into bed with Karen’s smile waiting for her on a Sunday morning. Now it just feels like another responsibility. Maybe this is the real cue to get out of the game; when the payoff isn’t the fun part anymore.

Ray’s just about done topping up the drinks when there’s a chime from a pretty well-placed alert system. “That’s the doorbell,” Twyla explains off of Ronnie’s expression.

They all do the count as they look around the yard; at last, Ray gets up and goes in the house to find out who it is.

There are a few different ways to get out of here, depending on if her car’s been compromised; she’d taken note of the garages nearby and they’re nothing she couldn’t get into with a paper clip and twenty seconds. The question is if she’s got twenty seconds. She doesn’t have to look to know everyone’s wondering the same thing.

Ray comes back out, followed by a short white guy wearing a button-down and jeans, his hands jammed into his pockets. He looks like a thumb that went to business school. “You guys,” he tells them, “Are _fucked_.”


	4. Chapter 4

_Two weeks and three days before the all-clear_

Emir’s dad would’ve called it a nice pile; one of Boston’s old-money mansions that have either been owned by the same family for three hundred years or owned by people who want you to think their family’s owned it for three hundred years. He always wonders what heating a place like this must cost. Give him a nice one-bedroom any day.

TRLT Insurance will pay for a car or business class plane tickets, but Emir prefers the unobtrusiveness of the Acela, strolling up to the homes of millionaires and billionaires a little rumpled, slightly out of breath. Everyone gives a sigh of relief when the realize _he’s_ the one investigating their insurance claims. The relief never lasts long, which is its own kind of gratifying.

That being said, he’s operating on about four hours of sleep and five cups of shitty coffee grabbed on the train. It’s only been a few days since the Met called his office and fucked his life over, but he already feels about a decade older. He’s extra-underestimate-able at the moment; he just hopes it helps.

“Mr. Kaplan? How do you do.” Mrs. Van Housen totters into the foyer on three-inch stilettos, a sheath dress and pearls at her ears and neckline. Definitely a family that wants you to think it belongs, then.

Emir smiles and shakes her extended hand. “Thank you for meeting with me, Mrs. Van Housen. I appreciate you taking the time.”

Sure enough, she’s giving him a once-over, the smile turning just a little smug at the edges when she takes in his polyester blend pants and short-sleeved shirt that’s got a few sweat stains — fuck Boston in May, it’s already an oven — and ratty briefcase that his mom bought him twenty years ago. “Of course. Though I’m not sure what help I can offer; I understand you’re investigating the awful situation at the Metropolitan Museum down in New York?”

“Awful situation” is a new one. “Yes, but I thought it might be a good idea to speak with you; after all, it’s not that long ago that _your_ Vermeer was nearly stolen.”

“It _was_ stolen,” Mrs. Van Housen says, sharp, leading him into a sitting room that’s as beige as she is.

Emir sits where he’s directed to, all mournful sympathy. “Of course — that’s why I’ve come to you.” He opens his briefcase and pulls out a folder. “I’m not sure you’re aware that David Rose was released from prison a few months ago. He was photographed at the Met Gala on Monday.”

“Oh,” she says, taking the folder and examining the half-dozen photographs. It’s a calmer reaction than his on Tuesday morning, which involved a lot of swearing. “Well, there you have it. Has he been arrested?”

“Not yet,” Emir says. “But he’s someone whose character I’d like your perspective on.”

She thrusts the folder back at him. “I don’t know how much help _I_ can be. It was over five years ago.”

He smiles as he takes it back. “I read about the whole thing, of course. It sounds like it was a harrowing experience.”

She shudders, dramatic. Too dramatic. “It _was_. My _dear_ husband had just passed, so perhaps I wasn’t in the best frame of mind to consider selling _Het Straatje_ , but David Rose—“ She purses her lips. “Well. He could talk a snake out of its skin. Sebastien is a charmer, too, but David Rose—“

“Of course. But it seems very reasonable for you to have agreed to their offer, Mrs. Van Housen,” Emir says.

She frowns. “It was David Rose pushing the entire thing, Mr. Kaplan, I assure you. I can say I wasn’t at _all_ surprised when I was told he had sold a forgery to the Rijksmuseum and kept _our painting_ for himself. Just an _utterly_ amoral man. Thank God for that appraiser, what was his name, Eli—“

“Eli Roper,” Emir supplies, helpful.

“Yes,” says Mrs. Van Housen, startled. “Yes, Eli Roper, thank goodness he spotted the forgery. Who knows what else David Rose might have gotten away with?”

Emir’s still thinking about _our painting_ , but he nods. “So you’d believe him capable of orchestrating something like the Met theft?”

“Oh, certainly,” she says, shrugging, her interest fading. “I don’t know if you’ve ever met the man, but people like that don’t change, do they? They always want more than they’re entitled to.”

Emir hasn’t, in fact, ever met David Rose. “It’s definitely a type,” he agrees. “Well, Mrs. Van Housen, thank you very much for your time.”

“Of course,” she says, getting to her feet with a pleased pinch of her lips.

He makes to leave and pauses. “One other thing,” he says, smiling bashfully. “I heard — I don’t know if this is true or not,” and he adds a self-deprecating chuckle, “But I heard that after the trial was over, you ended up with David Rose’s forgery?”

She smiles, wide and very annoyed. “Who told you that?”

He shrugs. “The art theft investigation world is very small, Mrs. Van Housen. It’s just a rumor, of course—“

“Well,” she says, and abruptly strides past him, deeper into the house. He follows after. “It’s hardly a _secret_ ,” she says. “The Rijksmuseum was eager to be rid of the fake, of course, and I thought after everything we’d been through, it was only right that we have something to show for it.”

They arrived at a dining room, a slightly different shade of beige with carpeting that must be a pain in the ass to vacuum to that precision. On one wall is a large, tacky mirror; on the other—

“I’ll give him this much credit,” Mrs. Van Housen says, gesturing with a pleased little flourish, “It’s quite a convincing copy.”

 _Het Straatje_ is one of Vermeer’s smaller paintings; the picture’s badly placed here, swallowed up by the sheer breadth of the room. But it still catches the eye, so real that you expect the woman in the alleyway to straighten up, the couple kneeling in the street to turn to one another and begin to speak.

“I’ve never seen one of his forgeries before,” he admits, making no move to get closer.

She smiles, that little pinch reemerging. “Everyone says he’s the best — I’ll admit even _I_ can’t really tell the difference. One reason they were never able to catch him before; apparently, the consensus is that if David Rose has been within twenty feet of your painting, and it disappears? You’ll never know if you got it back.”

*

_Two weeks and two days before the all-clear_

Sebastien’s running late — it’s not his fault, Helene is just delectable — juggling his sunglasses and and his bag. He hates this part of the Upper West Side, all tourists and encrusted old natives, but there’s a decent restaurant that should be open.

He almost misses Patrick, leaned up against a parked car, his arms folded and eyebrows raised. “Sebastien,” he says, barely loud enough to be heard over the mid-afternoon traffic.

“Hi.” Patrick’s not in the habit of tracking him down, but this certainly isn’t the first time. Still, after the week they’ve had he’s wary. “Everything all right?”

Patrick’s eyebrows are still up, and all right, maybe it’s not the best question to ask. “I called your assistant, she said you’d be here.”

Helene is his assistant; Patrick knows her name. “I sense a reprimand,” Sebastien says, and gets his glasses on. He heads off toward Olma.

“I gave up on convincing you not to sleep with your employees a long time ago,” Patrick says, falling into step. “I spent the morning at the police station again. They seem to think you had some involvement with what happened.”

“And you’re asking me if I did?” Sebastien asks, amused. Patrick is so aggressively _decent_ , so fanatically _good_. It must be exhausting.

Sure enough, Patrick snorts. “Funny. They showed me pictures of David, and…” he pulls an awkward face. “Obviously Stevie was there. So it’s pretty clear what happened.”

“Patrick, it has nothing to do with us,” he says, stopping to put a hand on his shoulder. Patrick looks up at him with those big brown eyes, all moral fortitude and common sense. He can almost see why David’s still got this sad little obsession with him. “And if David was involved—“ he purses his lips, tries to look sad about it. “Well, I’m sorry that you have to see all that again.”

Patrick shakes his head. “You know, there’s part of me that doesn’t want to believe it,” he says, heaving a sigh.

“I know,” says Sebastien. “And I think you’re being very brave, Patrick. Just don’t let him get back in your head, okay? He’s not a part of our lives anymore.”

“Oh, believe me,” Patrick says, “David Rose is the last person I want back in my life.”

Sebastien can tell he means it.

*

_Two weeks and one day before the all-clear_

Alexis wakes up to her phone pinging at her, irregular but insistent. Ted’s long gone into work for that weekend neutering extravaganza that she forbid him from discussing at home, so she’s got to fumble all by herself to get the phone off the bedside stand and unplugged so she can blink her eyes enough to actually read whatever’s on it.

There’s about a dozen WhatsApp notifications and a half a dozen texts; the latest text box is from Patrick and just says “ALEXIS WAKE UP.” She dismisses it; the next one says “ALEXIS WAKE UP.” The other four say the same thing.

“Oh my _God_ , Patrick, _chill,_ ” she mutters, and checks WhatsApp. It is, of course, all Patrick, the first one at like, _five_ in the morning. On a _Sunday_.

[Hey there!]

[So this is an awkward request but I wanted to know if you had David’s new number, or knew where he was staying]

[Actually I’m not sure you knew — he’s out]

[Anyway he got in touch the other day and I wanted to talk a little more but I don’t have a number, I wondered if he’d reached out to you or your parents yet]

The next message is right after but Alexis looks at the time stamp; it’s about three hours later, at eight-fifteen. Still way freaking early but whatever.

[So I just talked with Ted and he mentioned the “thing” you did together this week and I’m gonna go out on a limb and guess you’ve been in touch with David]

[And I’m not going to yell or be mad about whatever that “thing” is — but now you definitely owe me at least telling me where he is]

[Alexis I’m serious, I need to talk to him]

And then the rest of the messages are just Patrick realizing that not everybody wakes up with the freaking sun and yelling about how if you’re sleeping past noon it’s probably sign of narcolepsy, which, mean.

[Im AWAKE, god, also I only robbed a corpse that one time and it’s a total dick move to throw that back in my face, it’s not my fault I was in that playboy bunny outfit]

Patrick types back immediately:

[That’s not what narcolepsy means. Where is he?]

[Okay Patrick u know I like u WAY more than David but honestly u kind of threw him in jail the last time? Which like totally he deserved and whatever but like I’m gonna have him call u ok]

The little “typing…” notification pops up but there’s no new message yet, so finally she gets up to brush her teeth and start the first part of her skincare regimen. She also texts David because like, what the hell.

—What did u do to Patrick

—Hi can I help you

—Yeah u can tell me what u did to Patrick, he wants to know where ur staying I assume to kill u

—Thanks, give him your address maybe he’ll kill you instead

She rubs her moisturizer in with maybe a little more vigor than the directions call for.

—Don’t be a dick David. I know u still whatever, feelings, but nows not a good time to break him AGAIN just bc ur horny

—Break him? Really? Can I remind you he’s the one who sent me to PRISON you’d think my own family could maybe remember that

“ _Such_ a _dick_ ,” she grumbles, because this is gross and dumb but David wasn’t there, has no _clue._

—Yeah break him. We had to put patrick together with fucking duct tape and rubber bands and promise to never lie to him again. U broke him and left him alone with no one except us to fix him and we don’t have another year and a half to go over to his house and stop him from drinking until he dies ok??????

There’s a long enough pause on David’s end that she exits out of text to check WhatsApp. No message from Patrick, but there’s still the little “typing…” thing over “Buttonface” which is probably a bad sign but she’s not dealing with it right now.

David texts back, the notification popping up:

—Fine I’ll call him

And then a second later

—Did he really try to drink himself to death

—Ask him urself, she types, because her horoscope said that she would be instrumental to a reconciliation but that doesn’t mean she has to _like_ it. She checks WhatsApp; Patrick’s responded:

[Fine.]

“ _Ugh_ ,” she says, but sends him a 😘 anyways.

*

_Two weeks before the all-clear_

Patrick, because he’s a petty asshole in that Canadian way that used to drive David up a wall and still does, now lives in fucking _Inwood_ , a few blocks from the Cloisters — in other words, as far from the Navy Yard as you can get without leaving New York City or worse, living on Staten Island. It’s one of May’s grey, miserable days that fades ignominiously into a grey, miserable evening and David spends a grey, miserable hour on the A up to Dyckman only to emerge to a grey, miserable and _wet_ night.

David clocks the first police stakeout, which means there’s likely a second one that’s not so easy to spot; of course they would have Patrick Brewer observed. Fortunately, Google Maps has improved tremendously over the past five years and he’s able to get a reliable satellite image of the whole block. The building one street over nestles cosily up to the back of Patrick’s building; it takes him about five extra minutes to scoot through the lobby, out into the very depressing concrete backyard, and into Patrick’s building’s basement. From there, though, he’s still got the issue of anybody seeing him going through Patrick’s door (or worse, _knocking)_.

Which is how he finds himself shivering on a goddamn fire escape at nine o’clock at night, because Patrick actually took some of his home security lessons to heart like some kind of monster and moreover has the audacity to not be there. It’s not raining anymore, but his pants are never going to forgive him for this.

He’s just about to text Alexis to text Patrick and tell him to come the fuck home already because he’s lost feeling in his toes and hands when the light to the apartment goes on. Patrick has a load of groceries in — David’s heart really can’t take this — those stupid cloth bags Stevie got them for their second anniversary, that say “Rose Apothecary” on the side and look like they’re from some twee farm-to-table shop in Park Slope. He’s wearing an ugly jacket David remembers him buying over David’s _strong_ protests and David wants him so badly he hurts.

There’s never really any good way to be hunched over in the dark tapping at someone’s window, and Patrick startles enough to drop the bag, which is a shame because there are definitely eggs in there. But he does open the window.

“I know you hate it when I ask what you’re doing here,” Patrick says, hauling him inside and shoving him down on the fugly Ikea couch. “But honestly, David.”

“ _You’re_ the one who called my sister in pursuit of this rendezvous,” David manages to protest through chattering teeth. “And by the way, not that I’m not — _thrilled_ — that you’ve become best friends with my entire family, but for the foreseeable future please don’t talk to them.”

Patrick folds his arms over his chest, glaring at him narrowly. “Is that because you don’t want the little police detail outside to think I’m involved in whatever it is you’re doing,” and his fingers flick out on the word _whatever_ , “Or because the idea of me talking with your parents and your sister without you present gives you hives?”

“Both,” David says, because he’s promised not to lie to Patrick anymore.

“And when I talked to Alexis I really wasn’t picturing a ten o’clock failed attempt at B&E by my ex-husband. Most people just meet for coffee at the nearest Starbucks or something.”

“Sorry,” David says, which hopefully can squeak past the technical definition of a lie, “I probably should’ve at least let you unload your groceries but in my defense, it’s freezing outside and I also was expecting you to be _home_ to let me _in_.”

Patrick retrieves the bag, making a face at the yolk now oozing out of the bottom. “It’s Monday,” he says as he unloads onto a tiny counter, and doesn’t say anything else.

David stops ogling his ex-husband’s ass for a second to take in the rest of the apartment — which isn’t hard, because there’s barely anything to take in. It’s a standard depressing New York studio, an abomination of a full-sized bed in one corner and the bathroom in the other. There’s nothing he recognizes; everything’s aggressively grey or black, which is at least a sign that his aesthetic lived on. It strikes him as a starter apartment, the thing you get when you’re making okay money but don’t plan to stay or don’t know how to get comfortable. Patrick lived somewhere like this years ago, when David first met him, a sterile box that Patrick never bothered to fill.

Then his brain finally thaws enough to hear what Patrick said. “Grocery day wasn’t Monday,” he protests, “It was Tuesdays and Fridays.”

“Yeah, when we were at the Apothecary,” Patrick says, like David should know his new schedule, like David’s somehow been around for the past five years of Patrick’s life and should know the rhythms of it now as well as he remembers the rhythms of it then.

David gets up off the couch that doesn’t belong to them. “I was told you wanted to talk to me?” he says, keeping his arms tightly folded around himself in order to cut down on the shivering. Looking pathetic might soften Patrick up (though history suggests otherwise), but he’s determined not to cheat.

Except he gets distracted, because Patrick is taking out a bunch of very familiar white and yellow objects. “Okay,” he says, crossing the three whole feet it takes to get to the kitchen and grabbing one, “You did _not_ get this at fucking C-Town.”

Patrick grins, leaning against the counter like he’s done something funny. “So maybe I still normally shop on Tuesdays and Thursdays,” he admits. “And maybe I made a special trip to Murray’s earlier.”

“This is—“ David peers into the bag, wincing at the eggy goo at the bottom but spotting fig jam, Marcona almonds, and—“Okay, this is—“

It’s the same cheese plate Patrick made for him, a million years ago and fifteen miles away, Patrick smirking with a hamper as he lured David out to Prospect Park for a picnic. The thunderstorm came up out of nowhere and that stupid fucking Newfoundland tried to steal their hamper; they ended up huddled under the Cleft Ridge Arch while it poured, kissing and giggling, sopping wet while the rain washed away Patrick’s romantic proposal plans. David said yes anyway, holding him close with fingers wrapped in gold.

“I recognize this,” he falters.

“Yeah,” says Patrick. His smile’s softer now, quiet and uncertain. “I had a feeling you might drop by.”

David rubs his face with his hands. It’s — so much, probably too much, to deal with. David’s been marinating in Patrick’s rage and rejection for so long that he doesn’t know what to do with this. That night at the Met, pinned down and gasping against Patrick’s mouth, he’d thought maybe he had a chance, with a few years of contrition and a ten-step Power Point plan to toe the line.

Stevie had asked him, a month or so ago, why he wasn’t mad at Patrick in turn, why he hadn’t matched Patrick outrage for outrage. And maybe he ought to have tried — but from any objective standpoint, David’s grudge would be one of a man who wanted too much, anyway. He’s been a thief and a liar his entire life and he’d known from the start that he’d stolen Patrick, lied to keep him. Losing him, in the end, felt like what he deserved. Besides, David never acquired the knack for being angry at Patrick. Everything dark that he tried to hold onto would bleach out and wither away under the rising-in-the-East certainty of him.

But all this, tonight, feels perilously like forgiveness. Like sunshine.

“We should talk,” Patrick says, and David realizes he’s a lot closer, just a few inches away.

Too far.

“Absolutely,” David agrees, and reaches out to catch the lapels of Patrick’s jacket.

Kissing Patrick has always been fun, easy, like the natural state of things. David hasn’t forgotten any of the details; how Patrick likes to feint to one side only to nudge at David’s nose with his from the other, how he likes to bite gently at David’s lower lip, how he smiles into every kiss, delighted.

“What did you want to talk about?” David mumbles, leaning back against the counter. Patrick’s hands are tight around his waist and he’s slipping between David’s legs again, proprietary like he was back at the Met and for the entirety of their marriage.

“Something,” Patrick says, and leaves his mouth to press a kiss against his chin, his jaw, his throat. “Something really important.”

“Sounds like we should stop what we’re doing,” David says, scratching his fingers through Patrick’s hair, relishing in the arch of Patrick’s spine. “If we need to talk.”

“Yeah, good idea.” Patrick does move back, but he’s still got his hands at David’s waist, pulling him around the ugly black table and chairs and past the couch, crowding David up against the bed, pushy and impatient. He was always like this if David was away for more than a few days, all hands and teeth, as if trying to punish David for leaving him. He shoves David onto the bed, falling on top of him with a grunt and a chuckle as David catches him. “Let’s talk about — whatever.”

“Okay,” David says, agreeable as he gets his hands on Patrick’s ass, pushing him down and against his cock. Patrick hums against his jaw, that satisfied noise that means he’s indulging David.

David’s happy to be indulged. “Can you get this—“ he tugs at Patrick’s ugly jacket, makes a face when Patrick raises his head to laugh at him. “What?”

“I’m going to let you in on a little secret,” Patrick says, kissing him quickly, a placeholder, and he’s so dear and warm and _happy_ , David never wants to let go. “I hate this jacket, too.”

“But you kept it because you knew I hated it,” David finishes the confession for him, because he knows Patrick better than anyone else on Earth. “You’re such an _asshole_.” And he kisses him again, overjoyed as Patrick tries to squirm out of the jacket, his thighs tight around David’s hips.

He finally flings it off with a muttered “ _dammit,_ ” then turns back to examine David with brown-black eyes, his mouth pink. “Christ,” he breathes, running his hand down David’s chest, rucking up his sweater to press hot against his stomach. “I want to fuck you into the mattress until you _cry_.”

David’s hips jerk up, his cock hard and rubbing against Patrick’s, too many clothes but _God_ it’s still good. Patrick doesn’t talk dirty so much as he just… says what he wants, what he’s going to make happen. “That’s fine,” he manages. “I mean, sure.”

“Good,” Patrick says, and gets up off the bed, which isn’t all that good but then he’s tugging at David’s belt and pants, urging David’s hips up to pull everything off. David manages to get himself propped on his elbows to enjoy the view of Patrick, enjoying the view of David.

It’s a nice view. Patrick’s shirt is half-undone, his skin flushed red and his hair mussed, his jeans bulging obscenely. But he’s got a little frown on his face. “What is it?”

Maybe he’s going to throw him out, or make him actually talk about whatever it is he wanted to talk about, or force him to confess — he’s definitely not wearing a wire but who knows if the apartment’s bugged at this point. David doesn’t really care, but the frown is still worrying.

“I don’t have any condoms,” Patrick says, thoughtful.

Relief and annoyance and a bone-deep fondness wash over David; he flops back down onto the mattress. “That’s fine,” he says, trying not to whine but probably failing. “We can—I mean, unless you think—“ There’s really no graceful way to ask your ex-husband how many people he’s slept with in the last five years.

“There wasn’t anyone else,” Patrick replies, even though he hadn’t asked, and it’s like a goddamn _sunburn_.

“Well,” he says, biting the inside of his cheeks, “This isn’t how I wanted you to find out, but I met a _very_ nice man in prison named Shiitake, which wasn’t his real name? But—“

“Oh, my God,” Patrick mutters, and stomps off back to the kitchen, where he’s rummaging around in the fucking grocery bag for some reason, pulling something out and wiping it off with a towel before coming back and to toss it on the bed.

It’s lube, unopened, and David gapes at him. “You bought _proposal_ _cheese_ and _lube_ but no _condoms?_ I’m going to give you an A for effort but a C minus for execution—“

“You didn’t bring anything except a very inadequate _sweater_ ,” Patrick points out, crawling back into bed and attacking said sweater.

“Only because I didn’t expect to be _summoned here_ for what looks to be a booty call,” says David. “Also why wouldn’t you have lube just — normally? Patrick,” he says, laughing as Patrick scowls him, “I’m worried about you.”

“Don’t be, it’s fine now,” says Patrick, yanking David’s sweater off over his head, a second of beknitted confusion before he’s entirely naked.

“Wait,” David realizes, “My socks.”

Patrick looks down at him, narrow. “I’m fucking you with your socks on.”

“Ew,” David protests, but Patrick finally gets his hand on his dick and arguing seems kind of churlish at that point.

“I’m fucking you with your socks on, and I’m going to put on some Top Forty Country Hits for mood music, and you’re going to come so hard—“

“Promises, promises,” David gasps, already wet, Patrick’s hand gorgeous on his cock.

Patrick grins down at him, breathless. “Yeah.”

David twines his arms around him, pulling him down for another kiss — he’s still got his clothes on, which David likes and knows Patrick likes, too. He knows Patrick likes to fuck him with his jeans pushed down just enough to get his cock out, he knows Patrick likes David to feel the bite of the zipper and the buckle against his ass, he knows Patrick likes to take his clothes off afterward and let David push him down on his back and burrow in, touching him everywhere he can reach.

“Come _on_ ,” he says, impatient, and Patrick laughs into his mouth, fumbles for the lube and presses a careful finger inside. “Oh,” David says, because _God_ , he’s missed him.

“Okay?” says Patrick, the way he always does, like David’s something fragile, and David nods, breathing in deep — Patrick’s sweat and his, the smell of rain, the clean sheets beneath them. Patrick curls his other arm under David’s head, all around him and inside him. It’s okay. It’s okay.

“Please,” he asks, lifting his chin, and Patrick indulges him with a soft kiss as he slips in a second finger, the faintest burn of it soothed by his thumb rubbing soft circles along the inside of David’s thigh. “How have you gotten _better_ at this,” David grumbles, breaking away to get more air because he needs to survive this long enough to come, at least.

“Are you complaining?” asks Patrick. “Because I can stop—“

“Don’t you fucking _dare_ , Patrick Brewer, or I swear…” He’s going to make some kind of threat but Patrick pushes in three fingers, not so gentle now, and he’s lost in a long whine, shoving himself greedily down.

“I won’t, I promise,” Patrick murmurs, and that’s it, David manages to get his hand on his dick to stroke once, twice, and he’s coming on his stomach, still stretched out and twitching on Patrick’s fingers, the world gone lush and rich and quiet.

When he manages to get his act together, Patrick’s got his jeans open finally, jerking himself with short frantic pulls; David’s about to offer to help when Patrick comes, adding to the mess on David’s stomach, a deep shuddering breath against David’s shoulder.

“Well, _that_ was rude,” David says, and they’re laughing, Patrick rolling on top of him to kiss him some more, fumbling halfheartedly at his buttons and squirming out of his jeans, until they’re both skin to skin, the blankets burritoed around them and David burrowed in, touching Patrick everywhere he can reach.

“So,” Patrick says, turning to look at him, color on his cheeks, “Rain check on fucking you into the mattress until you cry?”

David grins. “I’ll pencil you in.”

“Smartass.”

“Coming from you, I take that as a compliment.” David clears his throat. “So. We probably — should talk, actually.”

Patrick nods, expression solemn. “Definitely,” he says, and pulls him in to kiss him again. “Later.”

*

_One week and six days before the all-clear_

The alarm goes off at 5:55 and Patrick breathes in sharply, willing himself awake the way he does every morning. Routine has saved him, more than once: get up, get dressed, get to work, every day divided into its manageable pieces until he can collapse back into this bed that’s smaller than the one they shared and still too big.

But then he registers his arm trapped under something heavy and warm, his other arm slung around someone who’s still snoring, soft and regular. David never could wake up to an alarm; whatever else five years in prison might have taught him, it didn’t teach him that.

Five years in prison. Jesus Christ.

Patrick shuts off his phone and settles back in bed, curled toward David who’s sprawled on his back with his mouth open. The first time they’d slept together (every time they slept together) Patrick woke up first, expecting David to look asleep much the same way he looked awake: gorgeous and impeccable, remote. Instead he found a snorting, drooling mess with bedhead, arms and legs ungainly and twitching. David never got any more dignified, but he did get grabbier, responding to any idle touch of Patrick’s with a soft sleepy complaint and an attempt to pull Patrick close, wrap him up in his octopus arms and snore affectionately into his hair.

There’s a long scar along David’d left arm, white with age but ugly. He’s definitely thinner, and in the morning light there’s more silver in his hair, along the temples and in the shadow of his stubble. His wedding rings are loose on his fingers, slipping off so easily that he doesn’t even stir. The crows feet at the corners of his eyes haven’t deepened much, but that line between his eyebrows has. He still uses that fucking Bumble & Bumble mousse, and he still smiles when he wakes up, keeping his eyes screwed shut in a very pathetic attempt to pretend he hasn’t woken up.

“Nice try,” Patrick says, and David’s smile broadens as he slits his eyes open, caught.

“Hi,” he says, soft and secret between them. “How’d you know?”

“Because you stopped snoring,” Patrick says.

David scrunches his face. “Okay, I have it on good authority that I don’t snore—“

“I literally showed you a _video_ _of you snoring_ once—“

“Which for all I know you doctored—“

“And who exactly was this ‘good authority,’ your new soulmate Shiitake? Because he doesn’t sound like a reliable character witness—“

“Anyway, at least I don’t still yell at people _in my sleep_ ,” David counters, which is his go-to defense whenever Patrick brings up his snoring.

Patrick can’t bite back his grin. “What was I talking about this time?”

David purses his lips. “You were very upset that the flamingo was upside-down,” he said, “And you couldn’t understand why I couldn’t hammer the fork. Was that what you wanted to talk about last night? It was very important, seemed like.”

It’s lighthearted and meant to make him laugh, but Patrick swallows around the lump in his throat. “No, it was — I want to talk about the Gala. About what happened, what you and Stevie and Alexis and whoever else did.”

“And what did we do?” David asks, not sarcastic, but like he’s fucking _curious_.

“Stole a half a dozen really expensive paintings, David, and no, I’m not going to turn you in again, but—“ he sits up, scrubbing at his face. Maybe if he presses his palms into his eye sockets really hard, the magical solution to this whole fucking mess will present itself.

“I think,” David says, “We need to talk about what we can talk about.” Patrick hears him shuffling around behind him, and a minute later he feels David’s ridiculously long legs bracket him in, David’s arms around him and pulling him back to lean against his chest. David’s the coldest person Patrick’s ever met, constantly whining if it’s below 20°C, shoving his feet into Patrick’s lap or his hands under Patrick’s jacket, heat-seeking.

“I can’t live with you lying to me again,” Patrick says, grateful that he doesn’t have to look at David when he says it, because he probably would live with it. He lived seven years with David and five years without him and he knows himself better now, knows exactly what he’ll live with.

But David doesn’t call his bluff, even though he’s got to know that’s what it is. “Okay,” he says instead. “Can you live with me not telling you? Because there are things right now, with this, that I _can’t_ tell you. Or not yet, anyway. So what about that? As a — ugh — compromise?”

Patrick’s mouth twitches involuntarily, remembering a long-ago fight about David’s ability to compromise. But it’s a fair question. He leans his head back against David’s shoulder and thinks, David patient behind him, the press of his mouth against Patrick’s temple.

“What if I need to know?” he asks, finally. “If your life is in danger, or Stevie or Alexis or your parents? You can’t just… not tell me that. I’ll trust you to tell me the important stuff but you have to _tell_ me the important stuff.”

“That is a compromise I am willing to make,” David murmurs, breath tickling his ear. “And to that point, the important stuff is that my life isn’t in danger, but I _might_ go back to prison if things go really bad. As might everyone else you mentioned. Which is why we’re laying low for a little while longer, until we can get everything taken care of. But,” he adds, tightening his hold, “I think we’ll get away with it.”

“You thought you’d get away with it last time, too,” Patrick says, wincing even while he says it.

David doesn’t pull away or stiffen or even sound all that angry when he says, “Right, so part of this compromise is going to have to be that you _believe_ me when I tell you things. This whole…” he waves his hands around, and Patrick catches them, presses them to his lips in apology. David huffs, a pleased sound, and keeps going. “This whole _job_ is because of what happened last time.”

“Because of me not believing you,” Patrick hazards, and he can practically David roll his eyes.

“You’ve gotten such an _ego_ ,” he complains. “No. I mean, yes, but it’s—“ Patrick feels the press of David’s forehead against his shoulder. “I can say that I won’t lie to you, and you can say that you’ll believe me, and I know both of us mean it. But this is something I can _prove_ , okay? I can prove it to — to you, to everybody.”

“Prove what, exactly?” Patrick asks, craning around to look at him.

David smiles at him, that same smile he’d had on his face when the police cuffed him and led him away, out of their home with Patrick left ripped open and lost. “Prove that I didn’t steal the Vermeer. _Any_ of them.” He kisses Patrick on the cheek, and scoots off the bed. “Now, excuse me, but I have to meet with an associate. We’re heading up to Boston for a couple days and no, I’m not telling you why.”

*

_Three days before the all-clear_

Helene is mainlining her third donut when Mr. Brewer comes in, whistling something that sounds like the stuff her Dad listens to. He’s been looking weirdly perky for the last, like, week, although maybe it’s just because the police have _finally_ stopped hassling Sebastien and that makes Mr. Brewer’s life easier.

Now she’s thinking about Sebastien again. Fuck. She reaches for another donut.

Mr. Brewer pauses. “Helene?” he says. “You… doing all right?”

“I’m great,” she says, and bursts into tears.

It’s so _dumb_ ; she’s every stupid cliche she’s ever made fun of, but last night Sebastien told her that he loved her _energy_ and her _passion_ but that he thought they should see other people, and then he _left her_ to meet up with those _other people_ that he wanted to see so badly. So she’s going to eat every single donut in this bag and then she’s going to join a monastery, just like Mémère had predicted.

“You know,” says Mr. Brewer, circling around her desk to peer into the bag with a thoughtful face, “The Donut Plant has much better offerings.” He holds out his elbow, smiling a little. “Let’s go get some.”

Sebastien, who she probably should start calling Mr. Raine again, at least until he fires her or she quits or whatever, won’t be in until the afternoon anyway. “Okay,” she hiccups, and wipes the crumbs off her blouse.

Mr. Brewer has always been nice to her, if a little task-oriented; he mostly keeps to himself in his back office. But today he’s happy to talk about the first apartment he got in the city, how much he likes stopping at the dog run in Washington Square Park, and did she know that if you stay on the 6 past the last stop, you can see an old abandoned station through the windows as the train slowly turns around?

They walk through Roosevelt Park and cross Delancey, and she ends up telling him the whole mortifying story; the dinners and the compliments and how he said she had a bright future and he believed in her potential.

“Yeah,” Mr. Brewer sighs, “That’s the playbook.”

It probably should be more of a body-blow to hear that Mr. Raine has done this before. “So I was just dumb,” she concludes.

“No,” he says, that way that means “Yes, but I’m too Canadian to say so.” It’s a nice effort, though.

“I’m going to have to find another job,” she realizes. “I’m going to have to _temp_ again. Temping sucks. God, this was stupid.”

Mr. Brewer is saved from having to be Canadian about it some more by their arrival at the Donut Plant, where he orders one of everything they have left and gives her a stern look when she tries to stop him from paying. “Think of it as severance,” he says, which actually makes her laugh.

The walk back to the gallery is quieter; she’s demolishing the creme brûlée and he’s busy with the vanilla bean. They stop at a cart and get some coffee to wash it down, and sit on a bench just outside the community garden, watching traffic pass on Chrystie.

“Thank you,” she says after a while, wiping her hands on the very inadequate napkins.

“You’re welcome,” he replies. “Are you gonna be okay?”

“Well, I have two dozen doughnuts,” she says, gesturing at the box, “So really, who needs true love?”

He smiles at that. “You know, I wasn’t that much older than you when I met my husband, and we’re still together,” he says, which Helene tries not to gape because she’d pegged Mr. Brewer as like a sad widower who’d lost his whole family in a car accident or a mass murder or something. “I was a couple years out of college, working as an accountant in Newark, and in comes this guy one day. He… stole my heart. I mean, I’m talking love at first sight, like some really cheesy romantic comedy. And everybody — everybody — said I was dumb. He was a big-shot art dealer, he was rich and handsome and glamorous, he slept around, he’d drop me in a month.”

“But he didn’t,” Helene guesses.

Mr. Brewer smiles. “No, he didn’t. Not even when he really, really should have.”

“Okay,” says Helene, “But this actually makes me feel worse, because you apparently found the only decent man-ho in New York City.”

“I got lucky,” Mr. Brewer admits. “But my point is, you’re not dumb for taking a chance, for hoping it’ll work out despite the warning signs. Sometimes it _does_ work out.”

Helene thinks this over. “Not with Sebastien, though.”

“God, no, never with Sebastien, he’s a genuinely terrible person. I mean _genuinely_ terrible.” Mr. Brewer looks rueful. “And I knew that, and I didn’t say anything before. And I should have. I’m sorry.”

It’s either the doughnuts or the fresh-ish air or the really embarrassing heart to heart, but she is feeling slightly better. “I still need to get another job,” she decides.

“Put me down as your reference,” he says. “I’ll give you a glowing report. You do great work, your organization skills are impeccable and you were always doing your best to keep Sebastien on schedule.”

She squints at him. “He was literally _never_ on time for _anything_.”

“You can’t work miracles,” he says, and stands up, offering his elbow again. She takes it and they head back to the gallery.

Somebody’s waiting for them at the doors, a round guy in a polo shirt with a briefcase and a beard. He comes up to them, hand outstretched; Mr. Brewer takes it first, and then her, a nice handshake.

“Mr. Brewer, Miss Kemblowski. My name’s Emir Kaplan.” He smiles, friendly. “I think we should talk.”

*

_Two days before the all-clear_

Ray is expecting a call from the caterers — it’s looking likely the Met pieces will all be dealt with by Monday, which is lovely, except that Monday is also Memorial Day, which is irritating, and not merely because of his adopted country’s histrionic observational practices — but the voice on the other end of the line is definitely not Trixie from Trixie Too Catering Do’s.

“Ray? Hi, uh, it’s Patrick Brewer.”

“Patrick!” Ray is delighted. He would never dream of gossiping, but word on the street, which is to say word from Stevie, is that David has been _far_ less irritating in the past couple of weeks. Ray has known the Rose family and David in particular for a long time, and the only time David was anything approaching non-irritating was when he’d finally tricked Patrick into a relationship (Ray lost his best “straight-arrow” accountant but has always considered the trade well worth it). Presumably Patrick is exceedingly gullible and has been tricked again, which is fine by Ray. “We shouldn’t talk, this phone is very likely bugged! But I’ll see you on Monday, yes? Seven o’clock?”

There’s a long pause, and Ray listens absently for the clicking sound that used to mean one was absolutely assuredly bugged. But the police have gotten so duplicitous. “I — so I can’t talk to you now?”

“Oh _heavens_ no, that’s a truly terrible idea!” Ray assures him. “But Monday, we’ll talk all about it! Ciao!”

A moment later the phone rings again; it’s Trixie this time, with some charming ideas about crudités. Everything seems to be going perfectly.


	5. Chapter 5

“You guys are _fucked_ ,” the guy says. It’s the same guy from the Met, who had been with Sebastien and then got into a fight with Stevie and then got sent off to find—

“ _Ohhh_ ,” Twyla realizes, leaning toward Alexis. “Is that David’s ex? Patrick something?”

“Yeah,” says Alexis. Her face is doing something really complicated, like she’s pleased but also thinking of how to escape through the nearest open window, which Twyla’s helped her do a few times — twice to escape the police and once because she was breaking up with Mutt for the third time and didn’t want it to be awkward. “And he’s _really_ not supposed to be here.”

“That may be a melodramatic way of putting it,” Ray chirps at Patrick, laughing, “But we may have a _slight_ problem—“

“I was approached on Friday by an insurance investigator,” Patrick says, overriding Ray to address the group. “And he gave me a list.” He pulls something out of his pocket and hands it to David, who’s come over to stand — not exactly next to him, but near him.

David takes the paper and makes a face, then hands it off to Stevie; Alexis almost immediately snatches it from her and Twyla reads it over her shoulder. Eleven names, numbers, contact information, like it’s one of those phone trees her grandma had from school.

The address next to her name is where she woke up this morning. “Uh-oh,” she realizes.

“This guy doesn’t want you, he says — he claims, whatever,” Patrick says. “He wants the Vermeer paintings back. _All_ of them.”

“All the ones from the Met?” asks Mandy. Behind Patrick’s shoulder, David gives her a quelling look.

Patrick frowns at her. “I — yes, all the ones from the Met. David, how old is—“

Stevie snatches the paper back from Alexis and stuffs it in her bra. “So this insurance guy hasn’t talked to the cops about this?” she asks.

That doesn’t seem likely, but Patrick shakes his head. “He said he doesn’t find them useful, whatever that means. And he’s not interested in turning you over, unless he can’t get the paintings back any other way. He said you have until the end of the week, or until he finds them on his own. After that — he’s going to get somebody involved, I don’t know who.” He blows out a breath, glaring at David who doesn’t seem to be feeling all that bad about it. “I don’t know _much_ , clearly. But Kaplan said—“

“Kaplan?” says Stevie, and Twyla’s gut twists. “As in _Emir_ Kaplan? That’s the insurance investigator who talked to you?”

Alexis rounds on Twyla, her eyes wide and panicked. “Isn’t that the guy—“

Twyla nods, because it is. Three years ago, with that stupid thing she and Stevie pulled in Toronto with the Rubens and the clown. They’d gotten away by the skin of their teeth and a half-dozen burned identities; she still can’t get back into Canada using her own name.

“Well,” says Stevie, and knocks back the rest of her beer. “We’re fucked.”

*

After that, the party breaks up. David can’t really blame them; if Stevie’s worried, they’ve all got something to worry about.

Ronnie, the Schitts, Twyla and Ray all have contingency plans, although Ronnie’s not happy about having to use hers. “Swear to God, every time I get involved with you people,” she mutters, but she agrees to get out of New York for the time being. Twyla’s already got a job lined up in Barbados and the Schitts’ skills (Jocelyn’s skills) means they’ve got prospects anywhere and everywhere. “Mutt’s been asking us to visit him — does he still live in Purgatory?” Roland asks Jocelyn, who shushes him and hustles him into their minivan. David doesn’t even want to know.

Mom and Dad argue long enough to be irritating but not long enough to be supportive. “If you’re _truly_ convinced of your own imminent failure, dear, who am I to contradict you?” Mom says, patting him on the cheek. “Perhaps a visit to dear Herb, to express our gratitude for his part in this little caper would be in order.”

“Yes, great, please continue to _tell me your plans_ ,” David says, but he accepts the hugs with only a modicum of flinching. There had been a time in his life — long before Patrick — when he’d looked at his parents and thought, _not this, not them_ , and tried to make something honest out of himself.

It hadn’t lasted; Mom and Dad had waited for him to fail then, too.

Alexis and Mandy, of all people, refuse to budge, which is sweet if completely unacceptable, but Stevie takes David bodily by the shoulders while he tries to explain to his sister just _how_ stupid she is. “I can deal with this,” Stevie says, and turns him toward the house, where Ray had shepherded Ted and Patrick into some harmless sitting room. “You’ve got to deal with _that._ ”

It’s actually the billiards room; Ray’s been doing extremely well for himself, clearly. Ted’s examining the vast assortment of paintings on the wall that all seem to be variations on “Dogs Playing Poker;” he takes one look at David and opens his mouth, shuts it, then scoots past with a wobbly smile and something muttered about finding his wife. David shuts the door behind him.

Patrick is leaned up against the table, hunched in on himself. “I guess I should apologize for coming here,” he says to the floor. “I know you didn’t want me getting involved.”

“I mean, if you hadn’t, we might be in some trouble,” David admits. Even now he’s flipping past Plans G through L, crossing out a few variants of Plan M. He and Stevie have a long few days ahead of them. “So, apology accepted.” He stands in front of Patrick. His hands hurt from not reaching out to touch him.

Except Patrick reaches out first, threading their fingers together. His palms are sweaty; when they’d first started dating, Patrick would flinch from holding David’s hand walking down the street. “I know this is your first big gay adventure,” David teased him once, but Patrick had cut him off. “It’s not that,” he’d said, his face red. “It’s — I’m nervous, okay? I like you so much that it makes me nervous, and so I get…” he rubbed his palms together, helpless, and David grabbed hold and hasn’t wanted to let go since.

Patrick looks up at David through his lashes. “You’re not going to tell me what’s really going on, are you?”

David squeezes his fingers, leaning forward until he can rest his chin on the top of Patrick’s head. “No,” he says, because he promised not to lie.

Patrick lets go, only to curl his arms around David’s waist, pulling him close. “Is it because you don’t trust me?”

“No.” That one’s easier. Trusting Patrick has never been the problem, exactly; but David acknowledges he has a fucked up definition of trust. He trusts the people he can predict: he trusts Sebastien more than Patrick. But if things go wrong, he trusts Patrick to hold onto him this time.

Patrick huffs, his breath ghosting over David’s neck as he lifts his head to look at him. “So the reason you’re not telling me is?”

“Because you have a terrible poker face?” David tries, propping his elbows on Patrick’s shoulders.

“I have an _incredible_ poker face,” Patrick counters. “We had more than a couple fights over me successfully hiding things from _you_ , remember?”

David remembers, but now’s not really the time. “You know, my parents are heading to Vanuatu. Maybe you should go with them.”

“Unless that’s some hipster restaurant in Williamsburg, the answer is no,” Patrick says, glaring. “Actually, even if it _is_ , no. Where you go, I go. And if you’re staying, so am I.”

Glaring has never been as effective as Patrick thinks it is; it’s too cute, and between that and his very annoyed declaration that he’ll follow David anywhere, David’s not feeling particularly chastised.

“David,” Patrick warns, but he’s tilting his head for a kiss, like he can’t help it. David can relate.

“I just want you to be safe,” David says, pulling away. “This whole thing—“

“This whole thing is about you and Sebastien, and you not wanting me to get caught up in what you’re going to do to him,” Patrick finishes for him. The glare comes back. “How far off the mark am I, there?”

“Not… very,” David admits. A thought occurs to him. “Are you — okay with that? Me doing something to Sebastien?”

The glare finally fades for good and Patrick kisses him, slow and thoughtful, the way he does when he wants time to think. “Well,” he says, and kisses him again, “I’ve known him almost as long as I’ve known you.” He kisses him again. “Worked for him for the past five years,” another kiss, “So I probably know him almost as well as anybody. And I’ve gotta say, David,” another kiss, “Whatever you’re planning to do to him,” one more kiss, “He probably deserves it.”

David kisses him back. “I love you,” he says, because he promised to tell the truth.

Patrick grins. “Yes, you do.”

*

Patrick took an Uber from the station to Ray’s — “I had him drop me off a few blocks away, I’m not a moron,” he says, which, he’s a sweetie but Alexis definitely has her doubts — so she and Ted drive him back into the the city, opting for 95 instead of the crapshoot that is the Holland Tunnel on Memorial Day night. If they get stuck in traffic, at least Alexis won’t have to think about all the billions of tons of water directly above her head while they crawl forward at three inches an hour.

Patrick doesn’t talk; neither does Ted. It’s kind of worrying. They blow past Secaucus and it’s still quiet. “Okay, _somebody_ say _something_ ,” she demands.

Ted catches her eye in the mirror from the backseat; he’s judging her in that very sweet way he has, that doesn’t actually annoy her mostly because he _wants_ it to annoy her and part of a healthy marriage is not giving the other person everything they want. Patrick, for his part, is being very jaw-clenchy and giving her flashbacks to all those nights at his apartment that first year or so. She’d go with Mom and Dad on Wednesdays, obviously, but she’d end up there most weekends too, if she wasn’t on a job or something, making him pick out her nail color or watching House Hunters or bullying him into teaching her about accountant stuff which she never bothered to remember because it was to get him talking, not to actually _learn_ about that stuff. If Patrick’s going to go all turtle back in his shell again, at least David’s out and can do the whole healing process himself.

“Are you going to return the paintings?” Patrick asks, because “say something” evidently means something different to Patrick than it does to everybody else in the world.

She’s doing her own jaw-clenchy thing now. “Yes,” she says, which is close enough to the truth that she can probably skate past.

“By the deadline?”

“Yes,” and that’s an easier one to answer. “Look, Patrick — _and_ Ted,” she adds to her husband who is currently making a “if you were one of my patients I’d put the Cone of Shame on you” face, “I know that saying ‘trust me, we’ve got it under control’ isn’t like, something that instantly makes you guys want to trust us, but like, trust us, we have it under control.”

“I don’t like this,” Patrick says, quiet.

“Me, neither, babe,” Ted pipes up. He leans forward as far as his seatbelt will let him, which isn’t that far. “This is — look, I know you guys, your family, has been doing this for a long time. But this feels different. I don’t want anybody going to prison because of some paintings.”

“Nobody’s going to prison, _God_ ,” she snaps, switching lanes. “It’s — it’ll be fine.” Patrick nods, and in the rearview mirror she sees Ted lean back, looking slightly doubtful but in a “honey I support your bad choices” way, so she’s calling it a win. “Anybody want to stop at Green Den?” she asks, hopeful. “They’ve got a new aloe vera shot.”

Patrick cranes his neck to look back at Ted, who spreads his hands wordlessly. When Ted first started coming around for Wednesday night dinners, Patrick was still showing up on the regular, too, and they’d hit it off worryingly well; it had honestly been a little bit of a turn-off, since Alexis had taken pride up until that point in picking men her family hated. But by that time it was too late, anyway, she’d already figured out what ring she wanted Ted to get for her. They still gang up on her sometimes, though, like she senses they’re thinking about to do. It’s kind of nice to know that David’s going to have to deal with this now, too.

“Sure,” says Patrick. “I just have to make a call when we get there.”

*

It’s a pain in the ass to figure out where Emir’s staying; he’s one of those guys who doesn’t have any discernible pattern to where he likes to sleep, unless he’s fucking you, and then he likes to sleep over at your place, presumably to save his company on costs.

Stevie acknowledges that she might still be harboring a little resentment there.

But he’s a lot more predictable when it comes to his food, so it only takes her until Wednesday to slide into the booth across from him at Casa Mezcal, a drink from the bar in her hand.

He’s mid-bite, which is great, but he doesn’t choke and die, which is too bad. Instead he chews thoughtfully and puts his fork down, reaching for his glass and taking a drink. “I gave Mr. Brewer my phone number for a reason,” he says, wiping his mouth.

“Yeah, but this is more unnerving for you,” Stevie explains patiently. “And if you’re going to make us give you back the paintings, you can’t expect me not to have a _little_ bit of fun.”

“Which paintings?” he asks, pulling out a copy of the same newspaper David was reading from that morning. _Sixth Vermeer Stolen_ , the headline says.

She reads, “ _‘“The Little Street_ ,” recovered after an attempted fraud in 2014, has once again been reported missing by the Amsterdam museum.’ Uh-oh. Wonder how that happened?”

“Lot of people looking for your friend,” says Emir. “Even more than there were before. I trust he’s at least ten thousand miles away by now?”

“Well, he’s not in Australia, I can tell you that much,” she says. The drink tastes amazingly bad; she sips on it anyway.

Emir smiles. “Still think this is fun?”

Stevie’s never been a fan of being coy. “You know it is,” she says. “So, Patrick says the deal is we give the Vermeers back to you, and you don’t give a copy of that piece of paper to anyone in law enforcement.”

“Hey, all I care about are the ones from the Met,” he says, putting his hands up. “But if you want to give me _Het Straatje_ too, I won’t be mad about it.”

“Yeah, I remember how not-mad you were the last time,” she says. Toronto is a few years past but she’s got a good memory.

He rolls his eyes. “You stole a Rubens and hid it in the _trunk of my car_ ,” he says as he picks up his fork again. “You realize that most people would be kind of upset about that sort of thing.”

That’s a point, albeit not one she’s prepared to cede at the moment. Besides, Emir’s never been most people. “And _you_ realize that the last time, it was just me on the hook.”

“Not just you,” he says, mild as he ever was. “How’s Twyla doing, anyway? I’m surprised she’s still working with you. You got her kicked out of her home country.”

“ _You_ got her kicked out,” she says. “And okay, sure, it’s more than just us two. Which is why I’m asking if there’s a catch somewhere. Some of these people aren’t really cut out for prison.”

“Yeah, you roped in a seventeen-year-old this time,” he agrees, taking a bite. “And the Schitts — did Jocelyn have her baby yet?”

“Roland, Junior,” Stevie says. She wishes it didn’t sound so much like a confession.

“ _That’s_ a burden,” Emir says. “So I guess you’ll have to hope there’s no catch.”

“I really missed you,” she lies, and downs her drink and considers her options. “Ten p.m. Friday, at the Raine Gallery. We’ll have everything ready for you.”

“By ‘everything,’ do you mean the paintings, or do you mean some evidence implicating Sebastien Raine in the theft instead of you guys?” he asks.

He always was too fucking quick. “You’ll have to come and find out,” she says, and gets up to go.

He reaches out to her, flinching away before he connects. She stops, anyway, waiting.

“You—“ he pauses, looking puzzled for the first time that night. “How did you know I’d be here? I didn’t bring my phone, I don’t _think_ I’ve got a tracker on me.”

“I’m giving away my secrets now?” she asks.

He smiles. He’s still got a very nice smile. “Consider it a favor.”

“Fine,” she says. This is going to be way more embarrassing than having him tagged. “You’re a sucker for douchey eating blogs. And Eater.com rates this place one of the best Oaxacan restaurants in New York, and you love Oaxacan more than anyone I’ve ever met who isn’t actually from Mexico.”

“You remember all that from the… what, two months we were together?” he asks, clearly baffled.

“I liked you exponentially more than you liked me,” Stevie reminds him. It doesn’t hurt to say, which is a relief, and it feels right putting it in the past tense. She still wants to fuck that look off his face — but she doesn’t want to kiss it off anymore, so yay for progress. “And I paid attention. Not _enough_ attention,” she admits, “But I paid attention to that stuff.”

The expression on his face is hard to read; or maybe it isn’t, but she’s not in the mood to try. “Stevie—“

“See you around, Emir,” she says, and walks out. On the way she passes the waitress who’s finally added up the bill; while she was picking up her drink, she put a round for the whole bar on his tab.

*

Emir hasn’t gotten where he is today by trusting anyone, much less by trusting exes who cost him almost two thousand dollars in bar tabs, so the next afternoon he heads back over to the Raine Gallery. He hasn’t had a need to talk to the owner yet — Sebastien Raine is clearly the fall guy rather than a partner in crime — but this new scheme might require some sort of recon, at least.

The door is open, but the gallery’s empty of everything except a whole lot of drop cloths and weird piles of wood; he doesn’t get modern art. He’d read about this place, after meeting Stevie a few years back and finding out just who her better half used to be; before his arrest, David Rose had been famous almost entirely for this gallery, touted as _the_ place to get noticed in the art world. He’d had a certain reputation even then, but the general consensus had been that it was gossip he encouraged or even invented, to add a layer of scandal to what might otherwise be a fairly boring if lucrative distinction. When the truth came out, the gallery became even more successful; after all, if David Rose really _had_ been a thief and a forger, maybe the new owner had some dark secrets, too. And so Sebastien Raine had slid easily into the empty space, as if by design.

Emir isn’t dumb enough to think it wasn’t.

He heads up the staircase; voices lead him to a brightly-lit reception area and beyond to an office that looks more corporate than he expected, glass walls and a bunch of chrome everywhere. Sebastien Raine is leaned back in his chair with his feet propped up on the desk, talking to someone opposite who’s short enough to get swallowed up by the tall back; when Emir raps gently on the open door, the chair swivels to reveal a petite redhead with a reserved smile and a very bland pantsuit that smells faintly of cigarettes. Either FBI or NYPD, though he’ll put his money on FBI.

“Excuse me,” Emir starts, but Raine is already on his feet, looking pleased.

“Amir Kapin,” he says, sounding so confident Emir has to think for a second to assure himself that his name did just get mangled. “I understand you’re the insurance investigator looking onto that awful situation at the Met?”

“It’s Emir Kaplan, actually, but yes, hello.” _Awful situation,_ he thinks, remembering Mrs. Van Housen. “I didn’t mean to interrupt—“

“Not at all,” says Raine. “I was just speaking with Agent Verinder here; it seems you’re not the only one still looking for the missing Vermeers.”

“Well, it’s only been three weeks,” Emir acknowledges, shaking Agent Verinder’s hand and sitting down in the other chair.

She nods at him, polite, before turning back to Raine. “Like I said, Mr. Raine—“

“Sebastien, please,” Raine says, smiling with too many teeth.

Agent Verinder looks annoyed, and like she’s trying not to look annoyed. Emir keeps his mouth shut. “We’re not taking over from the NYPD, we’re just trying to expedite matters. The sooner this can get cleared up and the responsible parties held accountable, the sooner you can put this behind you.” She glances at Emir, sizing him up faster than he’s used to, and less dismissively than he’s comfortable with. “I assume that’s what you’re after, too, Mr. Kaplan?”

He shrugs. It’s always better to be honest with law enforcement; one reason he doesn’t bother dealing with them much. “I don’t really care about holding anyone accountable,” he says. “I’m just here to get the Vermeers back to the Met.”

Agent Verinder pauses, as if she’s waiting for something else, and then shakes her head. “Oh, right, your company probably doesn’t insure the Rijksmuseum.”

“Sure doesn’t,” he says. “Good thing, too — I don’t speak Dutch.”

“Me either,” she admits, smiling, “And yet. Interpol’s asked us to figure out if there’s a connection between Amsterdam and the Met, which—“ she makes a frustrated gesture with her hands, “I’m guessing there is.”

“David always liked to bite off more than he could chew,” Raine says, sounding mournful about it.

Emir nods thoughtfully and watches Sebastien watch him nod thoughtfully. “So you think your old partner has something to do with this?”

“I think it’s a sadly predictable gambit on his part,” says Sebastien. “The last time he tried to steal _Het Straatje_ , he tried to blame me, too. Who knows what he’s planning to pin on me this time, you know?”

“He didn’t _try_ to steal it, from what Mrs. Van Housen told me,” says Emir, and enjoys the flash of concern on Raine’s face more than he probably ought to.

“Mrs. Van Housen,” he says. “You spoke with her?”

Emir smiles. He’s not the type to put an innocent man in jail just for pissing him off, but he’s not above scaring the guy, either. And whatever else is going on, Raine is way too smug about something. “Of course. We had a very productive conversation, in fact. She’s got a lovely home.”

Agent Verinder looks back and forth between them. “Well,” she says, and stands up, “I should get going. Thank you very much for speaking with me, Mr. Raine. We’ll be in touch.”

Emir follows Agent Verinder out; she doesn’t say anything as they go down the steps and out through the gallery and onto the street. But she stops a few feet away, looking at him closely. “Hold on,” she says, and pulls out a pack of cigarettes.

“I didn’t know anyone still smoked,” Emir says.

“Don’t tell my husband,” she says, and lights it with an honest-to-God zippo lighter. She catches his look and rolls her eyes. “I’m sentimental, okay?” she says, pocketing the pack and the lighter. “Some junior-high habits die hard.”

“Can you do that thing where you light it by snapping your fingers?” Emir feels compelled to ask, and gets rewarded with an actual grin. He likes her, which is a first for anyone in law enforcement.

“To my eternal shame, no,” she says, and takes a drag. She lets it out in a long exhale, squinting at him, before she speaks. “I know I haven’t gotten in touch with your company yet, but I’d like to ask if you’ve found any leads. I could go through the official channels later, if you’d like,” she adds. “But it sounded in there like you’ve got more information than we do.”

Emir likes her, but he’s not an idiot. “If I did, I wouldn’t be nearly so friendly with you,” he says. “But I might have some information for you on Saturday.” He hands her his card. In the sunlight, he can see the faint nicotine stain on her left-hand fingers.

“I’ll hold you to that, Mr. Kaplan,” she says, and stubs out the cigarette. He watches her get into a nondescript Ford parked illegally on the street and drive away.

Well, now he _really_ has to hope Stevie’s not fucking with him.

*

It's been a long and tedious Friday, with more of the same to look forward to; the new installation is going in over the weekend, _Fifty-Eight Notes_ by a very promising young woman he met at that pre-show in March. Madeline is barely out of school, but she moves like a deer and has beautiful grey-blue eyes and sometimes Sebastien needs to prioritize his well-being over his business. But of course this means that he's been dealing with Patrick's judgmental professionalism and Helen's professional judgement all day, which is exhausting.

The teamsters wrap up at nine-thirty sharp, as per the contract that Patrick apparently can’t negotiate, leaving very unattractive piles of construction materials that are hardly distinguishable from the material that Madeline’s installation calls for. Still, it all should be done by the grand opening on Tuesday.

“Unless the whole place catches fire first,” says Madeline, with a charming, unworldly smile. “But of course, wouldn’t that just be _perfect_ for the work?”

Patrick, who has been aloof in his office for most of the day, somehow manages to be on hand to hear this and blanches, but all he says is, “Glad I double-checked our insurance coverage.”

“Where would I be without you?” Sebastien says, though he’s been considering that very question for the past few days. Patrick has begged off their usual Wednesday meals ever since the Met Gala unpleasantness, and Sebastien isn’t one for paranoia, but he’s beginning to feel a bit hurt. He really hopes Patrick won’t force him into using his own insurance plan; it would be such a shame.

But all Patrick does is make a face and turn to Helene, who’s been standing at the doorway with her coat and purse for the past five minutes. “You can head out, if you’d like,” he tells her, softer than Sebastien’s ever heard him. If Sebastien didn’t have twelve years’ experience knowing exactly what Patrick’s preferences were, he’d suspect something else altogether. As it is, it’s no doubt more mutual bonding over Sebastien’s refusal to bow to pressures of what he likes to call monogomaniacal expectation. Helene leaves, and Sebastien realizes he may have to face the following week with no assistant _or_ accountant. Distressing.

Madeline, oblivious to all the undercurrents as only the young can truly be, curls her arm around his. “I hope you don’t mind,” she says, conspiratorial and sweet in his ear. “I brought some other things over? I thought we could go over a couple other pieces I’ve been workshopping at school. This is — god, _such_ a thrill. I wanted you to be the first to see.” She looks over to where her outsized portfolio case was propped up very promisingly next to a charming Hermes overnight bag. Perhaps this weekend wouldn’t be so tedious after all.

“Of course,” he says, in the mood to be charitable. She smiles again and drags him toward the piece she’d been most insistent on getting built today, _A Kind of Love_ : two figures twined together on a pile of logs and kindling, surrounded by what the Teamster leader assured him was the appropriate amount of fireproof safety glass.

“So the matches will go here,” says Madeline, looking positively girlish in her excitement, “In a little box, and people will be free to light one and toss it on the pyre. The work will be extinguished every evening, and I’ve used durable materials, _but_ —“ she smiles, pure and uncomplicated, a fresh gust of brilliance in this staid space— “It will only last if it’s not set on fire every day.”

“Such an incredible piece, truly,” Sebastien says. It is, in a naive sort of way, though not really to his taste. “Would you like to try it tonight?”

The matches they use will be some artisanal things Helene sourced out of Greenpoint, but the matchbook in his pocket will do just fine for tonight. He lights one and hands it to her; she looks appropriately awestruck, on the cusp of her vision coming to fruition, and it’s another kind of thrill to watch her toss it gently onto the fire, the wood catching, the lovers beginning to burn. In the firelight, Madeline looks otherworldly.

Patrick, who’s now got his own jacket and bag, sighs deeply. “Fire extinguisher’s over there,” he says, with what Sebastien considers excessive relish at spoiling the moment. “I’m heading home before this place goes up.”

But before he can finally get out of their hair, the front door to the gallery opens.

It’s not Helene coming back for some dramatic outburst, at least; it’s Emir Kaplan, looking like he’d rather be safely tucked up in bed like a good corporate soldier. “Uh, hi,” he says, shuffling in. He takes in the scene and frowns. “Huh. Okay, well, hopefully this place isn’t rigged to explode, although that would explain a few things here.”

“Mr. Kaplan,” Sebastien says, trying to regroup. He hasn’t got a clear grip on where this evening is going, but he doesn’t like it much. “Good to see you again.”

Kaplan’s not paying attention to him; he’s drawn to _A Kind of Love_ , already crackling. Maybe this installation won’t be a total waste, if people actually _like_ it. “Huh,” Kaplan says again, and turns back to Sebastien. “Sorry to barge in. I was told that there might be something of interest for me here.”

“There is,” says a very familiar voice; David, wandering in from the back as though he were a patron who’d gotten wrapped up in admiration of some work or other. “Hi,” he adds, with that genial little wave Sebastien remembers so well. “I’d say I’m sorry to barge in, too, but it is my gallery.”

“Was,” Sebastien corrects him. If he’s not sure what’s going on right now, he can at least be sure of that.

Patrick is, interestingly, more dumbstruck than anyone. “ _David_?” he says, in a tone of voice at once familiar and strange, one Sebastien hasn’t heard for at least five years. “What are you—“

“If you ask what I’m doing here, I’m getting another divorce,” David says, his eyes narrowed. “What are _you_ doing here, Patrick, is I think more of the question,” and David turns to—

—to _Madeline_ , who slumps a bit, pulling away from Sebastien with a grimace he’s never seen, crossing her arms over her chest. “I was _working_ on it,” she says, defensive. “He was about to leave when _he_ showed up,” and this was accompanied by a gesture toward Kaplan, whose eyebrows look to be permanently ensconced near his hairline.

“Fine, whatever,” David says. “Patrick, I don’t suppose I could ask you to—“

“ _I’ll_ get another divorce if you ask me to leave, how about that,” says Patrick, still with that tone. Whatever this is, Sebastien suspects it’s not a put-on. Not that that changes his plan.

“This is going great,” David gripes, but shakes his hands out and visibly regroups. “Mr. Kaplan, is it? I’m—“

“David Rose, I’m aware.” Kaplan actually shakes his hand. “Heard a lot about you.”

“Most of it’s true,” says David, with that smile that used to charm stupid old women and impressionable young men.

And insurance investigators, apparently. “I assumed you’d be in Australia by now,” says Kaplan.

“No, that would be Stevie,” David replies, with an idle check of his watch. “She sends you her regards, by the way. Not her warmest, but still.” He claps his hands together. “So! I understand you’re looking for the missing Vermeers.”

Kaplan, to his credit, doesn’t look either stupid or impressionable. “Some of them,” he says. “Why?”

“Well,” David says, “It just so happens that there’s something in the basement that you might be interested in, if you’d like to come with me?”

“How about you go and I stay here?” Kaplan says. “I have a phobia about dark places where I could get locked in.”

“Me, too!” David says, all charm. He turns to Sebastien. “Would you mind—“

Patrick makes one of those annoyed faces Sebastien remembers so well and heads for the basement. “Mr. Kaplan,” he says over his shoulder, “If you’ll follow me?”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Sebastien asks, once the basement door shuts.

“I’m framing you,” David says, blinking in surprise. “Just like you framed me five years ago, you remember that? Of course, this time I’m framing you for the theft of _five_ paintings — which, I’ll admit that’s a coincidence, but I like the symmetry of one painting for every year I had to spend in prison.” He smiles. “I can see why you did it, honestly. This is fun.”

Violence is nothing more than the desperation of the mindless, but Sebastien has to acknowledge a certain desire. Still — “I wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” he advises.

David doesn’t answer right away; he stares up at _A Kind of Love_ , looking pensive and distracted.

Sebastien’s always been good about seizing opportunities as they come, but the impulse for violence has passed, thank God. Instead he slips his phone out and pulls up Agent Verinder’s number, texting _gallery_ and dropping the phone back in his pocket before David turns back around. It’s a shame it’s come to this, but he can’t pretend he won’t enjoy it.

“You did, though,” David says, and it takes Sebastien a moment to remember what he’s answering.

Patrick and Kaplan reappear, carrying portfolio cases considerably classier than Madeline’s or whatever her name was. Sebastien looks around, reminded suddenly; but she’s long gone. Just as well. This could get messy.

“I’ll admit,” Kaplan says, cheerful, “This is a bigger haul than I was expecting tonight.” He leans the portfolios against the wall and directs Patrick to do the same.

Sebastien goes over and opens one: the startlingly plain face of _Study of a Young Woman_ stares back at him.

“He really had a thing for young women,” David comments, coming up to stand next to him. “Remind you of anyone you know?”

Sebastien shakes his head. He always suspected David’s success was due more to luck than any real intelligence; could he really be this stupid? “David,” he feels compelled to say, quiet and reproving. “Are you _sure_ you want to do this?”

David pauses, and for the first time looks uncertain. Sebastien will enjoy this a great deal.

He picks up _Study_ , heedless of Kaplan’s startled step forward, and examines it closely. “Mr. Kaplan,” he says, “Are you familiar at all with the work of Tim Jenison?”

He doesn’t really have Kaplan’s full attention, so it’s understandable that Patrick is the one to pipe up. “‘Tim’s Vermeer,’ right? That guy you had a, what did you call it? A nerd-crush on?” This was directed at David, who looks away from Sebastien for a moment to glare at his ex-husband.

“That’s what _you_ called it,” David says. “He was very inspiring.”

“And very helpful,” says Sebastien, holding the painting up to the flickering light supplied by _A Kind of Love_. “Talked our ear off about this fascinating way to paint just the way Vermeer did. Painting light itself, capturing every nuance of the scene. Brilliant man. Groundbreaking. I’m surprised nobody else has done it.”

And he tosses the painting into the fire. _A Kind of Love_ engulfs it, the canvas flaring beautifully against the tempered wood. It really will make a remarkable exhibit — and of course if this Madeline or Mandy or whoever is in prison, Sebastien won’t have to worry overmuch about her share of the proceeds.

Kaplan actually lunges for the fire, but Patrick rescues him from any real idiocy with a hand on his arm, though he does look constipatedly furious. “Are you _insane_?” he yells at Sebastien, still holding on to Kaplan.

David, of course, just sighs and crosses his arms. “No,” he admits. “Just a little more on the ball than I was expecting him to be.”

“They’re _fakes_ ,” Sebastien explains, waving at the six portfolios. “You didn’t think David just painted _Het Straatje_ , did you? It was his best one,” he allows. “But that’s because David could paint from the real thing, courtesy of the Van Housens. I’m surprised you only painted one copy, David.”

“One copy got me into _quite_ enough trouble, thanks,” David replies, prim.

“And they’ve been down there the whole time, I bet,” Sebastien says.

“Oh, no,” says David. “We had to break in a few weeks ago. The night before the Gala, remember? That was a first for me — never broke in somewhere to _leave_ something.”

“Then where are the _real_ ones?” Kaplan demands. He’s finally shaken Patrick off. “Sold already? I warned Stevie—“

“They’re at the Met,” says David, looking _extremely_ annoyed, which is good but not enough; Sebastien wants a lot more after this farce. “Safe and sound. We never took them out of the museum; it’s harder than you’d think to sell a Vermeer on the black market. Not nearly enough profit to make the risk worth it, really. Unless you wanted to fuck someone over.”

Kaplan doesn’t look convinced. “And I’m supposed to, what, take your word?”

David makes a face. “I mean… yes? You don’t have anything to lose; I’m given to understand you’re very good at finding out where me and my associates are at all times, so it’s not like you can’t just round us up if it turns out I’m lying to you.” He pulls out his phone and taps at it for a few seconds; Kaplan’s phone beeps, and David smiles. “I just sent you the location and some very nice pictures we took that night. Sorry about the flash, the lights were out at the time so they’re not super high-quality? But I think the gist is pretty clear.”

Kaplan looks at his phone. “I don’t suppose I could take these as collateral?” he asks, waving a hand at the portfolios.

David looks over at Sebastien, who’s feeling magnanimous. David’s stupid plan failed and he’s going to be whisked off and out of Sebastien’s life yet again in just a few minutes, with any luck. “Certainly,” he says. “But I’m going to have to insist David and Patrick here stay put.”

“And why’s that?” David asks.

Sebastien smiles. “I’ve got my own collateral, David. I did warn you not to do this.”

David shrugs. “I wasn’t really paying attention,” he admits.

Right on cue, Agent Verinder strides in, the red and blue flashing lights behind her bouncing off the glass. But what’s truly beautiful is David’s reaction; he freezes, just for a moment, his expression perfectly still, and Sebastien knows that whatever else David might have planned tonight, Agent Verinder was about to fuck it up completely.

“What’s going on here? And Mr. Kaplan,” she adds, “I’m going to have to ask you to put those down. And can we — maybe turn off the bonfire, here?”

Kaplan does as she asks, although he doesn’t look happy about it. “Agent Verinder,” he says. “We’re uh. Just wrapping things up here—“

“Oh, no, we’re just getting started,” says Sebastien. “Agent Verinder, I believe you’ve been looking for the _Het Straatje_ , correct?”

“That’s — correct,” she says, frowning at all of them in turn. Patrick’s looking flabbergasted, Kaplan’s looking annoyed, and David’s still frozen, watching everything as if he can just charm his way out. “Do you have information on its whereabouts?”

It’s better than sex, screwing David over like this. But he warned him. This is David’s fault, now. “I do, as a matter of fact. It’s at Patrick Brewer’s apartment, hidden under his bed.”

“It’s _what_?” Patrick yelps, taking a step forward. “David, you didn’t—“

“No,” David says, finally unfreezing long enough to look at his ex. “I didn’t.”

Which is — enough, it seems like. Enough for Patrick to round on _Sebastien_ , fury in every line. “What did you do,” he says more than asks. Sebastien is a head taller and he’s never really thought of Patrick as a threat before, but he has the sudden urge to step back.

“He did what he always does,” says David. He almost sounds impressed. “He got himself an insurance plan.”

“You could try it sometime,” Sebastien says. “Tonight might have gone better for you.” He takes a breath; he wishes he still had his camera, that he could capture this moment. It’s not every day you can frame someone _twice_ for the same theft. He feels full of light, full of _potential_ , full of—

“One — just _one_ quick question,” says David, holding up a finger. “If the _Het Straatje_ is at Patrick’s apartment, then what’s this?”

He takes one of the six portfolios and opens it, just as Sebastien realizes: six portfolios and one already-destroyed painting, but only five missing pieces from the Met. If there are six—

David’s a lot more careful than Sebastien had been. “ _Het Straatje_ sounds so magical, doesn’t it? All it means is ‘The Little Street,’” David says, holding the painting by its very edges and taking it over to Agent Verinder. “I never understood why most painters of this time were so bad about names.”

Agent Verinder takes the painting gingerly. “David Rose, I presume,” she says, sounding almost _amused_. “You realize you just put your fingerprints on this.”

“Oh, mine were already all over it,” he assures her. “I painted it.”

Agent Verinder blinks. “You _what_?”

“Oh, I’m _definitely_ getting another divorce,” Patrick says, collapsing down on a bench with his hands over his face.

Kaplan comes over, craning to look at it. “So where’s the real one?” he asks. “I didn’t see it in those pictures you sent me.”

“ _What_ pictures?” Agent Verinder demands.

David turns to Sebastien. “Where _is_ the real one, Sebastien?” he asks, sitting next to Patrick like they’re enjoying a sunny afternoon at the park. “Do you have any ideas? Maybe Mrs. Van Housen could help out. What do you think?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sebastien says. He’s still got time to think of something, to get an edge.

“You used to be a better liar, Sebastien,” says David. He turns to Kaplan. “Would you be so kind as to grab that little portfolio by the door?”

Kaplan’s annoyance encompasses both Sebastien and David, but he does as he’s told. Sebastien doesn’t have to look.

“You stole this from the Van Housens?” asks Kaplan, absently, holding the painting with the same care David had shown. It’s identical, of course, right down to the paint along the edges. David had been so _smug_ about that.

“I paid them a visit,” David says. “Of course, it’s awkward to report a theft of a painting you’re not _really_ supposed to have in the first place, isn’t it?”

“So…” Kaplan’s lips move silently for a moment. “So Mrs. Van Housen had the real one the whole time.”

“Well, not the _whole_ time,” David corrects him. “She _was_ going to sell, and we had it for… what, three months, Sebastien?”

“Four,” but it’s Patrick who says it. “You had it four months, while you worked on getting a buyer. You got it the week after our anniversary.” He still has his hands over his face.

“Right. And yes, I may have, out of a purely educational spirit of inquiry, or what have you, made a copy. But I certainly never intended to _use_ it.”

Agent Verinder doesn’t look convinced, but she says, “So whose idea was it to sell the museum the fake?”

“Nobody’s,” says David, “Because the Rijksmuseum didn’t get the fake. Not at first,” he adds. “No, they got the real thing, and then Sebastien — honestly, it was genius. I would never have dreamed it up in a million years, honestly.”

“Dreamed _what_ up?” Patrick demands.

David raises his eyebrows at Sebastien, who’s not going to say a word. Shrugging, David answers, “He found an authenticator who was equal parts desperate for cash and desperate to make a name for himself, and got him to claim the museum had a fake, and that the real one was hanging over our mantlepiece. So the museum took the fake, thinking it was real, and the real one, which everyone thought was fake, ended up back in Mrs. Van Housen’s beautifully manicured little hands, just the way she wanted. People like that always want more than they’re entitled to. Don’t you, Sebastien?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sebastien repeats.

“That’s not going to work much longer,” David tells him, grinning broadly.

“So—“ Agent Verinder looks from her picture to Kaplan’s and back again. “Which one is the real one? Or are both of them fake?” she adds, sour.

David looks delighted; he’s having _fun_. Sebastien ought to have killed him when he had the chance. He’d been complacent, expecting David to die in prison. But here he is and Sebastien should have made sure of it.

“That is so _devious_ , Agent Verinder, and I love it. But I can tell you that one of these is real, and one isn’t.” He comes over to examine them both, taking them from Agent Verinder and Kaplan to look at them closely. “So this one I stole from the Van Housens,” he says, “I mean, I’m looking at it—“ he squints, melodramatic, “And I’m going to be honest, _I_ can’t even tell. I’m just that good.”

“But _one_ of these is real,” Agent Verinder says.

“Oh, yes,” says David. He turns to Sebastien. “But the only person who can say for _sure_ is you, isn’t it?” He holds the paintings up. “You’ve been pretty enthusiastic about burning my artwork tonight, which is a little insulting, but I’ll get over it. But you’re not going to let me destroy a genuine Vermeer, are you?” And he stands there, and _waits._

Sebastien has always loved beauty, not just what’s considered beautiful but what _is_ ; there is equal aching perfection in the curve of a young man’s calf and the soaring ceilings of the Hagia Sophia. He’s never cared for the conventions that stifle true beauty, the endless red tape surrounding the things that can stop your heart. Two paintings, identical in every way; what does it matter if one is considered real?

But David’s always been better at finding weak spots. Sebastien’s only an amateur.

“Goddamn you,” he says, and yanks the fake out of David’s hand, throwing it into the fire.

David hands the real one back to Kaplan, freeing his hands to give Sebastien a slow clap. “I knew you wouldn’t let me down,” he says. “Now, Agent Verinder? I think?”

“Yeah,” she says, and pulls out a pair of handcuffs. “David Rose, you are under arrest for forgery, theft, and attempted fraud. You have the right to remain silent—“

“Wait, _what_?” David demands, shrill, all his smug satisfaction evaporated. Sebastien holds his breath. “I just _told_ you—“

“You just confessed to breaking and entering a private residence to perpetrate a theft, Mr. Rose,” says Agent Verinder. “What you stole isn’t really the point.”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Patrick says, getting to his feet. “He just explained _why_ , you can’t _arrest_ him for telling the truth!”

“Sir,” says Agent Verinder, looking alarmed, “Step _back_.”

“Mr. Brewer,” says Kaplan, but Patrick doesn’t seem in the mood to listen. He takes a step toward Agent Verinder—

And gets his arm twisted up behind his back for his trouble, Agent Verinder looking apologetic but firm. “Patrick Brewer,” she says, calmly, pulling out _another_ set of cuffs, “You’re under arrest for attempted assault of an officer.”

There are more flashing lights outside; a few uniforms come in with bland, not-quite-helpful expressions. “Everything all right?” they ask.

Agent Verinder flashes her badge at them. “Can you put them in the back of my car out front?” she asks. “I’ll need to wrap up a few things here.” She glances at Kaplan. “Would you mind if a few officers went with you to the Met? Sounds like your job might be done pretty soon.”

“As long as they don’t try arresting _me_ ,” Kaplan says, but he hands her the Vermeer and heads out, not looking back.

Sebastien’s abruptly alone with Agent Verinder, the paintings, and the fire.

“Well,” Sebastien decides, “This has been quite the journey tonight.” He smiles at her. “You didn’t believe anything he said, did you?”

She shrugs. “It’s going to be hard to prove, either way,” she says gazing at the _Het Straatje_ in her hands. “If he’d left everything where it was, maybe he could have gotten you into some hot water. But it sounds like he had too much of a grudge to be thinking rationally.”

“Well, you know what they say,” he tells her. “‘A man who desires revenge should dig two graves.’”

Agent Verinder smiles, and carefully leans the Vermeer up against the wall. “And jealousy is the grave of affection,” she says, quoting from something he doesn’t recognize. “Good luck, Mr. Raine.”

She heads out, nodding to a detective on his way in.

Sebastien takes a deep breath, lets it out through his nose. It’s over. Moira will have to be dealt with, and no doubt David will try some histrionics — buthe’s won. He’s lost Patrick and probably Mrs. Van Housen’s patronage, and god knows what she’ll say to the police, but David’s been taken away and he won’t be coming back any time soon. Sebastien won, again.

He smiles at the detective surveying the scene. “Good evening,” he says, holding out his hand. “Did Agent Verinder call you in?”

The detective doesn’t shake his hand. “Who the fuck is Agent Verinder?”


	6. Epilogue

They’ve driven for five minutes in silence — Rachel’s been watching the clock on the dashboard — when David Rose pipes up from the back seat: “Well, that was a fun night.”

The young woman driving them, who Rachel is pretty sure isn’t a policewoman despite the uniform, makes an annoyed noise. Patrick, on the other hand, lets out a guffaw; when Rachel turns to look at him, he’s grinning back at her. She remembers that grin from her childhood, alongside her braces and his guitar, a constant. He’s changed; so has she. But this part is still the same.

“So — what just happened, back there?” David Rose has his face scrunched up in this expression she’s only ever seen people make when they’re picking up dog poop. “Because I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to be able to do _this_ with real handcuffs.” He brings his hands around from behind him, the Halloween plastic cuffs dangling from each wrist.

Patrick laughs again. “You know what’s more worrying? Is that _that’s_ what clued you in, and not the person _driving the car_.”

David Rose’s brows draw in as his leans forward. “Oh my _god_ ,” he gasps, clearly horrified. “Alexis, what happened? Is this what you look like without makeup now?”

“David!” shrieks apparently Alexis, and just like that Rachel has another face to go with the hundred-plus stories she’s listened to Patrick tell over the years. “You’re such a _dick!_ ”

Patrick shifts around in the backseat, like he’s trying to get out of the handcuffs himself. “See,” he says to her, “I _told_ you.”

He had, but she still doesn’t really believe it. But she fumbles for the key anyway and tries to hand it to Patrick, which doesn’t work, and then she has to make eye contact with David Rose, who still hasn’t asked who she is.

“Thank you,” he says instead, and busies himself helping Patrick out of his fake cuffs.

“So, no offense,” says Alexis, and Rachel can hear Patrick’s muttered “uh-oh,” “But like… who are you? All Patrick said was that there’d be some girl helping to get him and David out and that I should make sure we weren’t followed — which we aren’t. But like, you aren’t actually an FBI agent or something, right?”

“Well, I’m Canadian, so no,” Rachel explains.

“This is Rachel Brooks,” Patrick says, massaging his wrists and resettling himself in his seat. “She’s… an old friend.”

David Rose keeps looking back and forth between them, like he’s waiting for the catch. “Interesting,” he says. “Patrick never told me his high school sweetheart was a con artist.”

Coming from him, that almost sounds like a compliment. “I’m not,” she admits. “I actually work in the bursar’s office at Rotman.” She gets blank looks from David Rose and Alexis, so she adds, “U of T?” Still nothing. “University of Toronto? In Canada?”

“I’ve heard of Canada. You’re an accountant?” David Rose asks, his voice going kind of high.

“I mean,” she says, “I do some acting on the side. I’m doing Stratford this summer, actually. And I was on a few episodes of _Degrassi_?”

“She’s really good,” Patrick says, with the confidence of someone who hasn’t actually seen her act since high school.

“And when Patrick called on Monday and said he needed help, I couldn’t think of a good reason why not.” She thinks back on the past few days. “Although, I’m pretty sure we broke… um, a _lot_ of laws tonight, so maybe that’s a good reason. But it was really fun. Even if I can’t exactly put any of this on my reel.”

“Well, on the bright side,” says Alexis, turning sharp enough to send Rachel scrambling for the Jesus strap, “You were _very_ convincing. Like, I was fully prepared to Bobby Ore you out of the car.”

Rachel doesn’t know what that means; it’s probably best not to ask. “Thank you,” she says instead.

“So you’re telling me,” says David Rose, waving his hands around — he still has the cuffs on his wrists, flashing in the headlights of oncoming cars, “That two _Canadian accountants_ just came in and saved the day.”

Patrick takes the key away from him and starts fussing at his cuffs. “You’re welcome, David,” he says, sounding annoyed and fond as he rubs David’s wrists, solicitous. Rachel watches them and thinks of Craig, probably bundled up with a dozen blankets on their couch back home waiting for her, and how he’s not going to believe _any_ of this.

“Wow, David,” says Alexis, “Looks like you’re losing your edge.”

“Wow, Alexis, looks like I’ll be hiring someone else to help me out next time I’m planning a job,” David Rose snipes back, and probably would have said something else, but Patrick puts a hand to his jaw and kisses him.

Alexis squeals “ _Ew!_ ” and Rachel has to laugh, halfway across a bridge she can’t name in a car full of criminals, the river below them reflecting all the lights of the city, scattering the blackness with diamonds.

*

Alexis drops them off at the Apothecary, which Patrick has some reservations about but keeps to himself as he slides out of the car.

“We should be in Toronto by five or so,” Alexis calls to their backs.

“I don’t think we can get there that fast,” he hears Rachel say. “Even if we drive all night, it’s a nine-hour trip.”

“Aw, you poor thing,” Alexis croons, and Patrick bites back a smile.

Rachel’s rolled down her window and he leans in; he can see on her face that she’s having the same deja-vu, Hailey or Danny driving them all home after a double-date at Cool Cow, a kiss goodnight knowing that they’ll end up talking on the phone until two in the morning.

“Thank you,” he says. “You probably _did_ save the day, you know.”

She kisses him on the cheek, wiping the smudge of her lipstick off with her thumb. “This is what I get for wishing you answered more of my texts,” she says. “Come see me this summer, both of you. I’m in _Little Shop of Horrors_.”

Patrick watches the car pull away and down the street, turning left on a red light and disappearing around the corner. He shoves his hands in his pockets; he’s not sure if he’s ready to turn around.

But then he does, and David’s leaning in the doorway of the Apothecary, watching him. If Patrick closes his eyes, he can see a thousand copies of this moment, coming home to find David at the doorstep, waiting to pull him inside.

“So Rachel and Alexis are now safely out of the city,” Patrick says. “And your parents? Everybody else who was at that—“ He waves vaguely toward where he thinks Newark is. “What about your extremely underage co-conspirator, who we’re definitely going to have a talk about because she was _maybe_ sixteen.”

“She’s seventeen and a half, and she’s on a plane to visit her grandmother. Cabo is lovely this time of year.”

“Which means we’re the only people hanging around town.” But he still lets David open the door and pull him inside.

“Emir Kaplan’s not going to care about anything else once he gets the paintings,” David says, switching some lights on. “And Sebastien’s got bigger problems than us tonight.”

The Apothecary smells exactly as he remembers, the floors creaking under his shoes the same way they used to. Everything about tonight is familiar — staying late at the gallery, Alexis driving them back, coming inside to a twilight-lit home — but it’s all new. Different.

“I thought Stevie took this place over,” Patrick says. He doesn’t really want to talk about Stevie right now. He hopes she’s off somewhere safe, too. He really hopes she’s not here right now.

“She did,” David says, and pushes Patrick against a wall. “I kicked her out.”

Patrick’s ready for something fast and a little rough, or playful, or just easy; but David’s mouth is soft on his and his hands are careful. He pauses to look at Patrick every few moments, like he wants to say something, but he just keeps coming back for another kiss. Patrick doesn’t mind.

Eventually they make it up the stairs, David peeling Patrick out of his shirt and tie. “I thought we agreed, no more ties,” David mutters, even though he’s making pretty good use of it by wrapping the ends around his fists and tugging Patrick closer.

“I said you could burn them,” Patrick reminds him. “If you want we could go back to the gallery. I’m sure that stupid Love Actually, or whatever it was called, fire is still going strong.”

“We’re never stepping foot in that fucking building again,” David says, scowling at Patrick’s belt.

“But I left my gym bag there,” Patrick protests.

David bites at his lip, his eyes dancing. “I’ll buy you all the ugly sweats you want,” he promises, and drops the tie in order to focus on Patrick’s belt buckle. Patrick manages to rescue his wallet before David yanks his pants down; David looks up at him from where he’s kneeling on the floor. “Do you think I’m going to steal your identity? That’s never really been my thing.”

“There’s a joke there somewhere,” Patrick says, and pulls out the condom he put in there the afternoon after David kissed him goodbye in his bed and promised to come back. “I seem to recall something about a rain check?” He waggles the condom.

David snatches it out of his hand. “‘Ribbed for her pleasure,’” he reads, with the purest look of disgust on his face, and Patrick loves him more in that moment than he ever has in his whole life. “What kind of heteronormative bullshit is Babeland selling now, did they get bought out by _Walmart_ or—“

“I didn’t get it at Babeland,” Patrick murmurs, pulling him back onto his feet so he can kiss him, a sting of teeth on his bottom lip.

David leans away, squinting and suspicious. Patrick wants to eat him _alive_. “You didn’t.”

“Mm,” Patrick says, bumping into the doorframe to their bedroom. He looks around; the bed’s in the same place, new sheets but the comforter he remembers, and he angles David inside. “Bought them at Duane Reade.”

David tries to pull away. “You bought condoms to fuck me with from _Duane Reade_.”

“Well, I only brought the one with me. The rest are at my place but I’m guessing we don’t want to go there anytime soon.”

“I’ve never wanted to have sex with you less,” David announces.

Patrick grabs two fistfuls of David’s sweater to yank him closer. “You, David Rose,” he says, “Are a liar.”

“Okay, yes, that was, in fact—“ Patrick pulls the collar of his sweater down to bite at his collarbone, and his voice cracks, “An untruth.” He sits down on the bed and reaches for Patrick’s boxers before Patrick shoves him onto his back, getting a knee between his legs as he crawls on top of him. “So _bossy_ ,” he mutters as Patrick gets his sweater off.

“You love it,” Patrick counters.

“I really do,” David says, his dimple showing. He shimmies out of his pants, making a big production out of taking off his socks and throwing them God knows where before he rolls on top of Patrick, running his hands up Patrick’s arms to pin his wrists to the bed. “Now, what was it again? Something something, fucking someone into the mattress until they cry?”

“‘Someone,’ sure,” Patrick grumbles, and manages to roll them back over, David too busy trying to get hold of the condom to keep his position. “Stay put,” he orders.

Of course David doesn’t, wriggling further up the bed to lay back amongst the too-many pillows that he always sleeps with, half propped up with his eyes lidded and watchful. Patrick huffs and yanks off David’s briefs before getting comfortable between his thighs.

David had insisted on getting this bed as his wedding present, a preposterous monstrosity that takes up two-thirds of the room and could comfortably fit a dozen people. Patrick used to point-blank refuse to change the sheets without David’s help, arguing that he’d get his ten thousand steps just walking around the fucking thing. But that means there’s also room for him to rut idly against the sheets, his cock heavy and urgent, while he sucks David down and listens to David make wordless noises of encouragement, jerking up into his mouth.

It’s so good, this feeling, David’s cock choking him and his thighs shivering, hips moving like he can’t stop himself. Patrick looks up and David has his hands clenched in the pillows, head thrown back, _wanton_ , and Patrick’s own climax shudders through him as he tastes David coming in the back of his throat.

“Oh,” sighs David; Patrick pulls off to watch him melt into the mattress, arms sprawling to either side. “Seriously, I remember you being great but that was — _suspiciously_ great.”

Patrick sits up, wiping his chin. “I watched a lot of Youtube tutorials,” he explains.

David grins up at him and makes an impatient grabbing gesture with his hands and Patrick goes, kissing him, letting David taste himself the way he loves to do. David hums into his mouth as his hand drifts down to Patrick’s boxers, before he pauses at the feel of Patrick’s come soaking through the front. “Oh, _honey_ ,” he laughs.

“Shut up,” Patrick says, pulling away, but he can feel his own laughter in his chest, threatening to burst through.

“Don’t get me wrong,” David says, trying to sit up, “I _love_ that you’ve been so hard up for it that you literally can’t focus long enough to follow through—“ Patrick tackles him back into the bed, shutting him up the best way he’s found, and David winds his arms around him and holds him tight. Patrick shuts his eyes and takes a breath, and another one, and another.

If he thinks hard about what happened tonight, all the repercussions, his stomach twists; it’s like that stupid tree-walk he did once with Alexis and Ted, thirty feet in the air with no net below. But there’s something else, something more than being wrapped back up in David’s arms and in their home; a buzzing in his veins, a _satisfaction_.

“Does it always feel like this?” he asks. “After a — what do you call them, cons or schemes or—“

“Jobs,” David says, sounding way too amused. “We call them jobs. How does it feel to you?”

“Like…” He searches for the words. “Like you’ve balanced your checkbook perfectly, the first time,” he tries.

He can feel David’s smile against his forehead. “Yes,” he replies. “That’s exactly what it feels like.”

“I can see why you like it,” Patrick admits. “Although I don’t think I could take this on a regular basis.”

“I’ll keep you strictly in reserve,” David says. There’s a long pause. “Are you worried?”

 _Worry_ doesn’t really cover it. “I just want to know what happens tomorrow,” Patrick says.

David pulls him closer. “Let’s find out,” he says, and turns off the light. Patrick blinks a few times in the darkness, and falls asleep before David’s finished settling in.

He wakes up at five minutes until six, reaching out for his phone — but the phone isn’t there and he knocks his hand against the nightstand. It takes him about ten seconds to figure it out: the smell of the sheets and the way the light slants into the room, and David, slung over him like another blanket, mouth soft against his shoulder and knee placed directly over his bladder.

David doesn’t stir when he gets up and pads off to the bathroom; once he’s finished he takes a minute to wander around. There’s a lot of unfamiliar furniture, comfortable practical stuff that Stevie probably bought and David probably hates, but the kitchen has everything he remembers; he gets a glass of water from the same cupboard, uses the same frouffy ice cube maker Mrs. Rose had bought them for a wedding present that they hadn’t asked for. Even most of the artwork is the same, the Kandinsky copied in cross-stitch that Patrick had found at a flea market, the Vermeer over the mantlepiece, the copy of “La Mer à Grandcamp” David’s always been so proud of.

The Vermeer over the mantlepiece.

David doesn’t wake up to jostling but he _does_ wake up to an ice cube on his neck; he snorts and bolts upright, his hair even more hilarious than usual. “Where’s the bear?”

“So David,” Patrick says, sitting down next to him, the rest of his glass of very cold water at the ready. “What’s the _Little Street_ doing here?”

“Oh,” says David, looking like he’s actually going to go back to sleep, which, no. “That’s not the _Little Street_. That’s _The Concert_.”

*

The Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum, located in Boston, is the rare museum that has remained almost exactly as its founder envisioned; Gardner not only procured the artwork to be displayed but arranged its exact placement to show off each piece to its best advantage. A stipulation of her will which established the museum was that her collection be displayed permanently _in situ_ ; this has been honored to the present day.

It has been robbed exactly once, on March 18, 1990, at approximately 1:30 am. The criminals — identified only as two white men — were never caught. The thirteen works of art stolen that night include Johannes Vermeer’s _The Concert_ , painted in 1666; none have never been recovered.

The Museum still displays the empty frames, a reminder and accusation both.

*

“Okay,” David admits. “I did, in fact, make two copies.”

“So I see,” Patrick says. He’s still got the glass of ice water, which is concerning. David shuffles over just a little bit further out of range.

They’ve decamped to the living room; Patrick’s standing in front of the fireplace like he’s Hercule Poirot about to read everyone the riot act, but it’s just David on the sofa, in some pajama bottoms he’s pretty sure belonged to one of Stevie’s assorted exes.

“And this isn’t the real one, right?” Patrick says, squinting at it. He blanches. “God, you didn’t let Sebastien—“

“Oh God, no. No, Sebastien picked the right one. I mean, he didn’t destroy the real one. The real one is at the Gallery — or wherever, probably in police custody by now. I hope,” he adds, because he hasn’t had a chance to check Twitter to see if “Vermeer” is trending.

Patrick doesn’t look wholly convinced. “So then why is this here? And why did you call it _The Concert_?”

“Because that’s what it is,” David says, wincing. This part was always going to be awkward but he didn’t realize just _how_ awkward. “How much do you know about the Gardner Museum theft?”

Patrick’s eyes narrow. “A lot less than I suspect you do. But it was like, in the eighties, _you_ couldn’t have — no. _No_ ,” he says, as if David’s said anything yet.

“Well,” he starts.

“Your _parents_ stole — what was it, like a dozen paintings?”

“Eleven,” David feels compelled to correct. “And no. Not… technically.”

“And weren’t they worth like a hundred million dollars altogether?” Patrick’s kind of shouting now, which is reasonable all things considered, but David’s feeling kind of judged.

“About five hundred million,” he says. “In today’s currency.”

Patrick takes a breath and blows it out, his cheeks puffing, and he sits down on the sofa. “Okay,” he says. “Start from the beginning.”

It’s a vague ultimatum, but David’s willing to try. “Mom and Dad didn’t steal from the _museum_ ,” he says. “They stole from the _guys_ who stole from the museum — they met with them a few months after, when they were trying to sell off one of the Rembrandts. Mom… didn’t like them.”

He was just a kid at the time, but he still remembers Dad bleeding, Mom’s face white with fury, both of them with shaking hands gathering David and Alexis into their arms.

Patrick must see something on his face, because he threads their fingers together, and David can keep going. “So, they stole the paintings from the storage unit these idiots had been using, which was honestly _very_ dumb, and the vase and the finial.”

“And they’ve just… kept them around for thirty years?” Patrick asks, although he sounds more baffled than annoyed now. “Why not just sell them?”

“Honestly? There’s nowhere to sell them _to_ , except back to the Gardner. Nobody’s going to touch those pieces, even people like Mrs. Van Housen; it’s too much of a risk.”

“That doesn’t explain what one of those paintings is doing here, though,” says Patrick, swirling his cup of water meaningfully.

David wonders how best to phrase this. “There were actually… a few paintings. Here. One reason Stevie took care of the place, actually; she knew which ones were real and which ones were my copies and which ones were…” He waves his hands. “Both.”

“An overpainting,” says Patrick, his eyebrows furrowed. “Isn’t that what it’s called? So—“ he looks around, like he’s about to ask which ones around the room are part of a thirty-year-old heist before he visibly thinks better of it. “So you decided to be cute and paint over one Vermeer with another.”

“To be fair, I made this one _very_ obviously fake,” he protests, getting up to better illustrate. “I used all modern paints on this one, any authenticator would have known right away it wasn’t the real one.”

“But—“ Patrick’s smart, it’s one of the things David loves most about him, and he’s catching on. “So _this_ was the one the museum in Amsterdam took, thinking it was the real thing, because of that authenticator guy.”

“Eli,” David says, because he’s got plans for him, too. Although now’s probably not the best time to bring that up.

“And the Van Housens got the real thing back, courtesy of Sebastien.” He chews at his lip. “But — there was another copy. Please tell me that wasn’t an overpaint, too, because I’m pretty sure Sebastien burned at least one of the three versions of this painting.”

David smiles. He’s _so_ smart. “Yes, there was another copy, which…” This is a little uncomfortable to admit. Best to just get it out. “Okay, I _may_ have painted that one, and the Met ones, in case of some kind of — future, you know, job. Just in case. I wasn’t planning anything specific, but—“

“You wanted an insurance plan?” Patrick asks, and he’s smiling back at least, his eyes crinkling.

“ _Yes_ , although that phrase now has certain unfortunate connotations,” says David. “Anyway. When they seized this copy, claiming it was the real one, I couldn’t exactly prove it was a fake without—“

“Without exposing what was underneath it,” Patrick realizes. “So you went to prison for five years rather than let your parents face the music.”

“That makes me sound very noble,” David says. It hadn’t been nearly that clear-cut, at the time.

Patrick shakes his head. “No, I think it makes you sound like a twerp,” he says, and gets up.

“Okay, I just _unburdened_ myself—“

“And you did a great job, honey,” Patrick assures him, taking his hand and hauling him off the sofa. “Come on. It’s Saturday. I want brunch.”

“Oh, God,” David says, realizing that he’s _starving_.

Most of the hipster abominations they used to go to have shut down or changed management in the five years they’ve been away, but there’s still an ice cream place at the Fulton Ferry Park. Patrick lets him read aloud from the Twitter Moment about Sebastien getting arrested, and they wander home with their vanilla cup and triple mint cone, past the carousel and into John Street Park, where they had their first kiss by the coin-operated binoculars under the shade of the Manhattan Bridge.

Patrick stops at the railing, watching the barges float past. “So what are your parents planning on doing with all of it?” he asks. “With the paintings. And the vase, and the…” he frowns.

“The finial,” David supplies.

“Right, the finial. If they can’t keep them, and can’t sell them — what then? Because I’m really not a fan of you going back to prison.” Patrick probably thinks he sounds cool and sardonic, but David takes his hand anyway, lets him feel the pressure of the rings against his fingers.

“Well,” David admits, “That’s kind of what this whole heist was about. I mean, don’t get me wrong,” he says, waving his phone, “Getting Sebastien thrown in jail was _my_ main motivator. But the Gardner was willing to shell out quite a lot of money to get all of the pieces back — as long as it was _all_ of the pieces.”

“So until you got your overpainting back from the museum in Amsterdam…” Patrick ventures.

“Exactly; when I told you I was going up to Boston?”

“You mean when you went and stole Mrs. Van Housen’s painting.”

“Okay, it wasn’t _hers_ anymore, she’d _sold_ it to the Rijksmuseum and I think it’s only fitting that they get what they paid for. But I was going to _say_ , while we were there, we returned the twelve other pieces, with the understanding that we’d only get half the reward unless they got their hands on _The Concert_.”

“And now you can give it to them,” Patrick says. He frowns. “You _are_ going to give it back, right?”

David sighs. This is embarrassing. “I mean, yes, but…”

“David. Are you upset because it means you have to take the overpaint off?”

He knows that tone. “Look, it was _really hard work_ copying that painting! And I did it _twice_! I’m just… maybe a little regretful that there’ll no longer be any evidence of all the effort I went to.”

Patrick rubs his face with his free hand. “Unbelievable,” he mutters.

“But yes, of course I’ll return it,” David says, hurriedly. He bites his lip. “Do you — want me to return the other paintings, too?”

“What,” says Patrick slowly, “What other paintings.”

“The ones from the Met,” David explains. “That we took that night at the Gala.”

Patrick still has his hand grasping his chin, as if he’s trying to keep his jaw off the floor. “I thought you didn’t steal anything from the Met.”

“We didn’t steal the _Vermeers_ ,” David says. “But we had to take _something_ , and let me tell you, the Met’s storage basements are a lot less secure than they should be. I should offer my services as a consultant, seriously—“

“Oh, my god,” Patrick mutters, letting go to put both hands on his face.

“It’s just that I didn’t know if this whole… thing would work,” David explains, waving his hands and almost sending his ice cream flying into the East River. “And I didn’t want everyone to go to all this trouble for nothing.”

“How generous of you,” says Patrick, but he doesn’t sound mad, at least. He lets his hands drop back onto the railing. “So everyone gets a happily ever after, courtesy of David Rose. And the Metropolitan Museum of Art's storage basement,” he adds.

“It’s the least I could do,” David says. He doesn’t know why he feels so defensive. Habit, maybe. “Stevie, Mom and Dad and Alexis, Ronnie and Ray and Mandy and Twyla and even the Schitts, everybody — they’ve earned a happily ever after. Or at least as much as ten million each will give them,” he amends.

“Interesting choice of pronoun, ‘them.’ What about you?” Patrick asks, leaning against the railing. The sun’s coming up over the buildings, catching sunlight in his hair. He doesn’t look like he belongs here; he looks like something that should hang in a museum, perfect and remote.

Something to steal.

“I don’t know,” he says, because he’s promised Patrick the truth. “As much as I love New York, I don’t think I can stay. Not until everything with Sebastien gets resolved. It’s going to be very tempting to blame me.”

“Even though you’re entirely blameless,” Patrick says, straight-faced, but he takes David’s hand again and squeezes. “So where are we going?”

“Interesting choice of pronoun, ‘we,’” David says, and Patrick makes a face. “Did you know Roland is a mayor?”

“Roland? Roland _Schitt_? That guy who ran that motel with your dad and Stevie, who never showered? What town has him as a mayor?”

David smiles. “I thought we could go find out. Lay low for a while. Two criminals on the lam.”

“Fugitives from justice?” Patrick asks, lifting his eyebrows.

“You did say where I go, you go,” David reminds him.

Patrick smiles and pulls him close, close enough to kiss. “I did.”

“Hope you meant it.”

Patrick leans in. “I do.”

*

_Two months later_

“Jasmine, you’ve got ten seconds before I come up there and get you!” Ronnie calls up the stairs.

Karen smiles, even while she’s juggling Gwennie, the diaper bag, and Hank’s Switch. “Bunches, I thought you installed that intercom for a reason,” she teases, bussing Ronnie on the cheek as she hustles Hank toward the door.

“But then I couldn’t yell at my children really loudly,” Ronnie points out.

Jasmine comes rushing down, wearing an outfit that they will talk about _later_ and carrying three different books, which is why they probably won’t bother talking about the outfit. “I’m coming, _God_ , okay?”

“Don’t give me that tone,” Ronnie says, but she puts her hand on Jasmine’s shoulder as they head out. “Three books, and we’re driving an hour and a half away.”

“I might get bored of two of them!” Jasmine says, clutching at them all like Ronnie’s about to snatch them away. Ronnie can see the title of one: it’s Stephen’s “Master Thieves,” which David probably thought was really funny when he sent it.

“All right, let’s go,” she sighs. “This scholarship fund isn’t going to award itself.”

Which leads to a bickering match about selection processes that Karen, Jasmine, and even _Hank_ feel compelled to discuss with her for three quarters of the trip. Ronnie keeps her hands at ten and two and counts her blessings.

*

_Five months later_

A key part of good management is allowing those beneath you to shine; perhaps they will fail, of course, but you must always give them their chance. Ray takes his glass of champagne from a friendly waiter and wanders around the gallery, and decides that he was _very_ brilliant for taking this particular chance.

Helene catches sight of him and comes over, carrying her own glass. “Mr. Butani,” she says, clinking glasses. “So glad you could make it.”

“I would not miss this for the world, Ms. Kemblowski,” he assures her. “I have already watched three young men leave looking irritated, and two couples arguing out on the sidewalk. I would say this was a success!”

 _Needs a Bicycle_ is a complicated installation, and perhaps the Phoenix Gallery — once the Rose Gallery, then the Raine Gallery — should have started with something less ambitious. But when Helene came in for her interview she had brought with her an entire (PowerPoint!) presentation on how best to make it work, and he hired her based almost entirely on the strength of it. Also so he could get at least some gossip about Sebastien Raine’s trial, for which she was a star witness, but fortunately his baser desire for the “inside scoop” has worked out for the best; she really is quite something.

“To infuriating people at every turn,” he says, toasting her. He catches sight of the buffet table. “Ooh, are those from the Donut Plant?”

*

_Seven months later_

Johnny’s not a huge fan of Boston — the traffic is terrible, the people can be a little bit much — but he’ll admit there’s a charm to it tonight, dancing with Moira in the courtyard to soft music he can’t quite place. He slides his right hand down her waist, longing at her hip. She still takes his breath away.

“Mr. Rose,” she murmurs in his ear, “We are here on business. Don’t even _think_ about getting fresh with me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Mrs. Rose,” he says, and lets her out in a spin, gathering her back in his arms where he belongs. “Branson still in position?”

“Oh, yes,” she purrs, looking over his shoulder. “They don’t suspect a thing.”

They probably ought to; this gala is to commemorate the miraculous return of all thirteen priceless works of art from the infamous Gardner Theft of 1990. Security is high, and probably will stay high for the next fifty years. The museum has learned its lesson.

Which is why Johnny planned this in the first place; Moira’s been getting bored lately, and it’s never the wrong time to remind the love of your life that she’s the love of your life. Especially if you can do it with a Tintoretto.

It’s a perfect evening. In ten minutes everything will swing into motion; but for now all he has to do his hold her close and follow her lead. “Happy Anniversary, sweetheart,” he says, and takes her around the dance floor one more time.

*

_Twelve months later_

Jocelyn settles Roland Junior into his carseat; he gurgles at her, all smiles, and she touches her nose to his. “Let’s go get Daddy out of lockup,” she coos to him. “ _Again_. For the third time this _month_ , Rollie I swear to god.”

*

_Fourteen months later_

Mandy barges through Washington Square Park, the portfolio banging against her thigh. “Slow down,” Twyla advises her over the earpiece. “You’re doing great! Just take some deep breaths.”

“I’m carrying a fifty-million-dollar painting around and I’m pretty sure those sirens are headed straight up my _butt_ ,” Mandy says, but she inhales and exhales.

“Well, it’s not like you haven’t hauled pricier stuff,” Twyla says, which is true. Mandy thinks back to last May, walking through this same park with a portfolio that looked a lot like this, the Vermeer tucked inside. This time it’s an Anguissola, though, which she actually _likes_. “Trust your outfit, trust the plan. You’ve got this.”

She’s got this. She does. This is fine.

It’s not fine; the sirens really are headed for the park, blocking off the north and west. Mandy doesn’t make a U-turn, because she’s a professional, but she veers south, crossing the street just as more police turn up. “So, fuck,” she says. “Cops are blockading off the park. I think they’re establishing a perimeter.”

“Aw, geez,” says Twyla. “Well, that’s no good.”

“I _know_ ,” Mandy says, trying not to hyperventilate.

“Okay, so here’s what you’re gonna do,” Twyla says.

Fifteen very breathless minutes later, Mandy finds the place and shoulders in. It’s the same gallery, but hardly recognizable; no more fuggo green and purple, just a soothing blue that reminds her of the Gulf of Mexico. A few people are milling around, but nobody really notices her. Twyla was right; in a Pratt sweatshirt with a portfolio over her shoulder, she’s invisible.

Maybe not totally invisible.

“I should kick you out just for giving me undergraduate flashbacks,” says a voice; Mandy whips around to face a woman coming down the steps, wearing a pretty red dress and looking like something out of a movie. She gestures to Mandy’s sweatshirt.

“It’s not mine,” Mandy blurts. “I stole it.”

She hears Twyla heave a deep sigh over the earpiece, and the woman smiles.

“I’m Helene,” she says, extending her hand, and Mandy realizes why she’s so familiar.

“Oh my God,” she says. “So — I wasn’t like, actually doing anything with Sebastien Raine, the last time we saw — I mean, that was part of the — I wasn’t dating him or anything. Or like, _anything._ ”

Helene keeps her hand outstretched and her smile broadens. “That’s good to know,” she says, solemn. “Ray called, said you might want some help with that portfolio of yours?”

“Oh, right. Yes. Um. Hi. I’m Mandy.” And she shakes Helene’s hand.

“Mandy. Nice to meet you.”

Mandy nods, and hopes her hands aren’t too clammy. “I’m single,” she clarifies, just to make sure.

“Aw, _geez_ ,” Twyla says over the earpiece.

*

_Sixteen months later_

“—and there are these garden shrews that nobody’s studied — I mean, not officially — and Dr. Lazlo says there’s a chance at getting a paper submitted to the ZSL next year, depending on what we find out.”

Alexis takes the swizzle stick out of her mouth. The Galapagos have actually been pretty fun, especially once she arranged for the yacht, but she’s been angling to go somewhere a little more her scene for the past month. She should have known that wildlife was the way to her husband’s heart.

“So you’re saying you’ll come with me to the Maldives,” she says, “Provided you can study a rodent while we’re there.”

“It could be a great opportunity,” Ted says, wriggling in his seat the way he does when he’s excited about something, like if he were a little puppy he’d be wagging his tail.

She puts down her drinks and puts her arms around him. “Okay,” she says, giving him a little kiss. His hands slide around her waist and she smiles. “I _guess_ if I have to timeshare you with a mouse—“

“It’s a shrew, actually—“

“Then we can make this work,” she finishes, and drags him belowdecks.

*

_Seventeen and a half months later_

There’s a little two-lane road out in Utah that’s only got a number, no name; from a map you wouldn’t know it was anything special, a little more winding than most. But if you drive down it just at the right time, at sunrise or dusk, the mountains look like something out of another world, beautiful in a way artwork can’t be and people always fall short of.

It’s killed more than a few people, too distracted by the views to pay attention to the road. It’s not a bad way to go, if you have to pick; but better to take it in and live the rest of your life having seen it.

Stevie pulls off her helmet at one of the overlooks and breathes in the thinner air. Her phone buzzes at her; it’s from David, because of course it is.

—Gird your loins, Patrick wants to set you up with one of his friends from the baseball team.

—Is he cute

—Adorable, but his roommate is a nightmare. I’m vetoing.

Stevie sends a text to Patrick, demanding at least some pics so she can make a shallow knee-jerk assessment. He delivers the goods in under twenty seconds, so Stevie knows he’s sitting right next to David arguing about it at this very moment. She texts a thanks to Patrick and goes back to David:

—Well I’m DEFINITELY fucking him at least

—EW. STEVIE. NO.

*

_Two years later_

Tuesdays through Saturdays are full of the ups and downs of small business ownership; running the store, checking inventory, dealing with customers, dealing with _David_ dealing with customers. Mondays aren’t much better, usually devoted to planning the week ahead or picking up from vendors.

But Sundays are sacred. Patrick isn’t allowed to get out of bed until noon, although David magnanimously allows him temporary reprieve to make coffee. Patrick’s nightstand has a pile of books to keep him entertained while David continues to snore or make snuffling half-awake noises against his side, skin-hungry and groping.

Today is an exception, though. Patrick shuts the alarm off at eight-thirty, only to find that David is already awake, despite their round one last night (and round two at midnight, and round three at one); he’s propped up on one elbow and gazing down at Patrick with the same expression he uses on chocolate cake. Patrick turns away so David can’t see his smile. “Really?” he complains, but it’s half-hearted at best.

David moves closer, tucking himself up behind him in a warm line along Patrick’s back, his forehead pressed to the knob of Patrick’s spine and his cock sliding easily between Patrick’s thighs. “Good morning, sunshine,” David murmurs.

“Are you sure about that,” Patrick says, or tries to, but he only gets half of it out before David thrusts once, idly, as if he’s just testing. Patrick moans instead and David chuckles against his shoulder as he wraps his hand around Patrick’s cock, possessive. Patrick doesn’t mind; all he has to do is close his eyes and feel it, the rings on David’s hand as much a turn-on as anything else. David holds him in place, keeps him still as he thrusts between Patrick’s thighs, his cock pressing up against Patrick’s balls, catching on his hole, the best tease.

He’s so close — but then David _stops_ , ignoring his protests, and manhandles him until he’s half-sprawled on his stomach, left leg bent and his cock rubbing against the sheets. “ _David_ ,” he whines.

“Mm,” is all the answer he gets, until David’s hand trails down his back and between his cheeks, circling around his hole with two proprietary fingers. Patrick startles at the touch, and he can tell that David is grinning as he says, “I’ve lost track — whose turn is it to get fucked into the mattress until he cries?”

Part of Patrick wants to flip over and remind him just whose turn it is, but most of him wants to spread his legs and press up against those fingers. David takes that choice out of his hands by reaching over him to grab the lube from the nightstand and flopping happily down beside him again.

“ _Now_ ,” says David, combing his hair out of his eyes, “We’ve got a busy day ahead of us, so this will have to hold you over until this evening. You think you can manage that?”

“You think _you_ can?” Patrick says, which is probably stupid because if he can’t walk afterward, the rest of the day is going to be tough.

Sure enough, David very pointedly coats all four fingers of his right hand with lube, before crawling behind Patrick, kneeling between his thighs and sliding three fingers in, the sting of it sending Patrick scrambling for something to hold onto.

“ _Oh_ no,” David says, taking away his fingers immediately only to grab hold of both Patrick’s hands, pulling his arms around to pin his wrists at the small of his back. “You’re going to _take_ it, got that?”

Patrick makes a noise; he’s not sure if he can say words right now. David slides his fingers back in, his index finger stroking behind his balls the way his cock was earlier, and Patrick’s already about to lose his _mind_. He twists his arms, not really trying to get free, but David’s left hand grips him tight, holding him down and helpless.

“Doing so good, honey,” David breathes, “So good for me, you want it? You want me to fuck you, make you cry, make you come—“

“Yes,” Patrick says, he remembers that word, “Yes, yes, please, fuck, yes, fuck yes yes yes—“ and it must be enough because David’s beautiful cock is pushing in, hot and slick and the _noises_ he can hear, David groaning and the wet sound of him, Patrick’s own ragged breaths echoing in his head. Both of David’s hands are pressing his wrists into his back now, hard enough to bruise, hard enough that Patrick’s cock is fucking against the sheets while David fucks into him.

David is saying something, Patrick can’t understand it at first, “—stay here forever, fucking you open for me, you’re so good, honey, like you were made for this, made just for me—“

“Yes,” Patrick gasps, “Yes, yes, yes, please, yes, _fuck_.”

David leans down to press his teeth against Patrick’s shoulder, the weight of his whole body making Patrick arch under him. “Come on, honey, come for me, you’re giving it up so beautiful,” and Patrick chokes out a sob and comes, wet heat against his belly and smearing into the sheets. David is still fucking him, relentless and too much, making him take it until David gasps and comes a few seconds later, his hold on Patrick’s wrists finally softening.

For a minute Patrick can’t move; he’s just basking, a heap of pleasure and relief and hollowed-out bliss that doesn’t remember how his body works. David pulls out carefully and climbs off; Patrick manages to get his arms spread-eagled over the bed, one arm half hanging off the side because the compromise they made when they moved to Schitt’s Creek was a California King.

David returns with a warm cloth, his hands gentle. “I’ve got you,” he says as he presses gently against his hole, and it’s enough to make Patrick shiver, his cock spent but twitching. David finishes up and tosses the cloth somewhere, and Patrick remembers enough about how the rest of his body works to turn over and pull him close, settling David’s head on his shoulder.

“That was _very_ nice,” he says, and David laughs against his collarbone, teeth scraping against it.

“Nice enough to hold you over until after the reception?” he asks.

Patrick considers. “I mean, we have to drive from the town hall _to_ the reception, don’t we?” he offers.

“I’m not giving you road head again. Once concussed, twice shy, Patrick Brewer.”

“Well, then I guess this’ll have to do,” he says, and presses a kiss to the top of David’s head.

From outside, he can hear the sound of a car pulling up — Alexis, maybe, or David’s parents, or his. The church bells start to chime nine o’clock.

“Are we ready to do this again?” David asks, not making any move to get up.

“Do what?” Patrick teases, tugging his hand up to press a kiss to the center of his palm. “Is today some kind of special occasion? Totally slipped my mind.”

David lifts his head up, his eyes crinkled with delight. “Liar.”

Patrick smiles back. “Thief.”

*

**Author's Note:**

> This story would never have happened at all if **dhara** hadn’t brainstormed with me and encouraged me the whole way through. **Lettered** donated her invaluable beta skills for the first two chapters; without that groundwork this story would not have been half what it was. **Etben** was, is, and will always be a champ down for listening to me whine about my prahhhcess at literally any time of day or night. And **twentysomething, whetherwoman, helvetica_upstart** and katiesaur (on twitter) all selflessly cheerleaded — cheerled? — at various points throughout, giving me the incentive to keep going just to impress them with the next scene. Thank you guys, and thank you to everyone whose lovely comments made this such a fun story to write.
> 
>  
> 
> (Please see first comment for proof that this is a story I wrote.)


End file.
